i love my leatherman

i have found more uses for my leatherman knife. in addition to pruning trees and giving myself pedicures with it, i spent the weekend reupholstering an old chair. i used several parts of the knife to finish the job. it was just missing a sewing needle. maybe i should suggest it....

so here is my first attempt at upholstery...



before after

the chair was evidently old, as the stuffing is made from hay and cotton



i decided to keep this is as the stuffing, basically because i have no idea how to make new stuffing. i made patterns from the old pieces, cut some new ones, stapled them on with my new heavy duty stapler (after shooting staples all over the basement with the old, broken stapler), and then hand stitched the backing on. hopefully i will sit on it once in awhile! although every time i do, i feel like i should start cross stitching or something! kind of fun to actually do something productive with my time!

how to avoid getting robbed in nairobbery

i have been building up ample experience in avoiding getting robbed. i have had people attempt to rob me at least 7 times here in kenya, and not once have they succeeded. i learned alot of tricks during my time in eastern europe as they are total experts in pickpocketing and bag stealing. little did the street teams of eldoret and nairobi know that i am already on to them...

so i will share how not to get robbed in nairobbery...

do not walk around with your backpack on your back, admiring the skyline of nairobi (or the garbage dumps of eldoret), blissfully thinking about the fact that you are visiting or living in africa. wearing your "back"pack on your back is an invitation to have it sliced open with a razor blade and all the contents emptied while you are composing the next blog entry in your head. you must sling the bag on your side or even wear it on the front. i did that in eldoret and looked pretty stupid but i kept all my money and my phone.

do not be a polite canadian (or "westerner") and apologize when someone bumps into you on the street. you have just apologized to the person who was trying to rob you. i learned this trick in budapest. people "bump" you and your bag and while you are catching your balance they have emptied your bag. this happened to me 6 times on the streets of eldoret. they usually work in teams. one guy bumped my "back"pack (which was on my hip) on a fairly empty street. i whipped around to check the source and a guy quickly walked by holding a briefcase on his chest. i don't know about you, but generally businessmen do not hold their briefcase across their chest. i checked my bag, it was intact and started walking again. bumped again! and a second guy with a briefcase rapidly walking by. a little suspicious... this time, he had unzipped the outer pocket and had evidently gotten his hand in my bag, but all he found was an umbrella and a piece of paper. if they are not concealing their hands with a briefcase, they often have one arm out of the sleeve of their jacket and quickly conceal whatever they have stolen under their jacket when they are done. a rather scruffy looking guy in eldoret tried that on me. "bumped" me, then was surprised to see me whip around to look at him. he tried to non-chalantly walk across the street while i eyed him. he looked a little embarrassed to be caught by the white girl.

do not pack your wallet in an outside pocket of your bag or have it somewhere easily accessible. stick it deep down or sandwich it between other things. it is harder to get at if they are slicing the side of your bag.

do not wear those neck pouches that all the travel stores sell. one, they look dumb. even if they are under your shirt. the big bulky rectangle between your boobs is not exactly incognito. having a strap around your neck is also a little stupid. cause they can choke you with it, or as they are slicing the string, accidentally slice your neck. and i don't think mec or rei offers medical insurance with those pouches.

don't walk around with your lonely planet book out or unfold maps while walking down a street. is that explanation enough? if you need directions, ask one of the guards outside of a bank.

don't shout to your friend that you are going to run to the barclays atm. also watch who is around you as you walk up, keep your peripheral view open while withdrawing money, and don't help people who claim that their card "doesn't seem to be working." Scan the area as you walk away, and walk with purpose. Seems excessive, but do you want to part with the $150 you just took out?

do not allow the boys or men selling plastic bags on the street or near a market to distract you with conversation or even try to sell you a bag. if you want a bag, go and purposely pick someone out and have your 10 shillings ready. one guy waved a plastic bag in my face with one hand while he thought he was stealthily taking the phone out of my pocket with the other. i felt him take it and whipped around and shouted that he give it back. i was fortunate that it was not busy and the street wasn't crowded. he didn't have a chance to pass it off to another bag boy friend. he was so startled by the finger in his face and the crazy white chick demanding her phone back that he actually gave it back!

don't have your phone in a jacket pocket. i learned the hard way. keep it in your bag.

be aware on matatus. if people start changing seats in the middle of the ride and cause "commotions" inside the vehicle, they are busy stealing your phone. last week a guy with an "injured" knee asked my friend to move. when she refused he magically got in the very back with his "injured" knee. he and his friend started switching seats beside me before we even left. his friend had a big piece of posterboard in a plastic bag and tried to act like it was a rare art print that could not be bent. he was trying to hold it between me and my bag so that he could insert his hand into my bag while i politely allowed him to protect his art. unfortunately for him, i didn't care what was in his big bag and shoved it back onto his lap. they were kicked off the matatu within about a minute and everyone checked that they had their phones.

the other matatu tricks are your neighbour pretending to try to access his seat belt or offering to help you find yours. NO ONE in nairobi wears their seatbelt in a matatu or even tries to find it. an expat learned that last week but lost $150 out of his pocket in the process.
try not to open your bag if you are sitting next to an open window, especially in the back seats. a guy stole my friends phone right out her bag and took off running. she was stuck in the back of the matatu and helplessly watched him run off with her phone.

don't yell "thief" at someone unless you are willing to watch them get beaten to death in front of you by mob justice. i have witnessed it once and it was traumatizing enough that i never want to see it again. (i was not the once who yelled thief thank God)

and that, my friends, is some sage advice on how not to get robbed in nairobbery.

sound of goodbye

sometimes the sound of goodbye is louder than any drum beat

armin van buuren

i have been back in canada for a few weeks now, adjusting to a place that is seemingly the same, yet just a little different than when i left it over a year ago. and i look seemingly the same, yet am a whole lot different.

my last couple of weeks in kenya were incredibly difficult. having to leave a place that i had so grown to love more deeply than i had realized. how to say goodbye, what to say, what not to say. but more often than not, words were not necessary. more often than not, i was sure the sound of my heart breaking would deafen all those around me. more often than not, the sound of goodbye between friends was deafening.

i learned a profound lesson in my most vulnerable moments. a year or two ago, i thought i was off to africa to help people. i had grandiose visions of cuddling babies, holding sick people as they died, of totally changing the small patch of africa which i was going to. i had no idea what was coming to me.

after a year of living in kenya, most of that time in a village, i felt as though i hadn't "done" much of anything. i hadn't started fantastic programs, designed projects, or even made a "sidebar" in the newspaper. i had cuddled only a few babies and held no one as they died. how did i justify my presence? what was i doing there? what was my purpose? all i seemed to do was walk around in villages and drink alot of really sweet tea.

although devastating, my last two weeks seemed to be the most profound. or maybe i was finally paying attention to the reason why i was in kenya. perhaps, i figured out, it was not for me to help kenyans, but for kenyans to help me. to help me shed my arrogant shell that i had all the answers, all the comfort, all the care and compassion that everyone needed.

my first experience of this came via my sewing machine. since i had very little time to try to dispose of my things, i decided to donate my sewing machine to a women's group in nairobi that has been very successful in training women to sew high quality products. i had been to the shop several times and was impressed with the work. so i arranged with the manager to bring by my machine one day.

i was given the opportunity to share with the women why i was donating my machine. first, they sang as i walked in the room! i was still in my week of "dehydration crying" and the moment i started speaking, i started crying. i am not even sure what i said through my bumbling. but the women all gathered around me and put their hands on my back. they took turns praying for me; i felt a soft hand rubbing my shoulders the whole time, and i slowly calmed. i felt relaxed and comforted. i felt cared for. the women i thought i was helping with a sewing machine, were helping me with deep care, concern, and prayers. i had not felt so ministered to in all my time in kenya.

my most humble and beautiful moment was in my village. i had one day to pack everything and say goodbye. only a few people knew i was leaving, none knew why. i had finished packing the things in my house and walked over to the hospital to bid farewell to the staff. i met a gentleman from the village who is well known and loved. he is "living positively", meaning he is HIV+ but open and free, doing his best to live a healthy life with a deadly virus. he has lost his wife to AIDs, and struggles to keep his children in school. in spite of all his challenges, which are more than i can imagine, he is always cheerful, loving, and although he is nearly skeletal, he has one of the strongest, hand-crushing handshakes i have ever experienced.

when he saw me, he heartily greeted me with the familiar kenyan phrase of "umepotea kwa siku mingi!! (you have been "lost" for so many days!). i greeted him back and said in swahili, "yes, and i will be "lost" for so many more days." and i could say no more. i started crying. my face contorted as i tried not to cry in front of him, but the hot tears came faster than i could control. before i could do anything more, he took me into his skinny arms and held me as i wept. i sobbed on his bony shoulder while he comforted me, assuring me that it would all be okay and that God would bless me where ever i was.

the tables turned, my heart flipped on it's head. my time in kenya ended not with me comforting kenyans, but with kenyans comforting me. i was sure i would comfort those with AIDs, but it was those with AIDs comforting me. the only audible sounds were my muffled crying and their soothing words.

the sound of goodbye. deafening.

cadence

while staying in nairobi over the summer, i joined a bike club and would go riding weekly with a diverse group of people, led by kinjah - a kenyan rider/mechanic. he has started a cycling club, safari simbaz, in an effort to promote cycling in kenya, especially among the youth. he trains young boys in cycling and bicycle maintenance (thereby keeping them out of trouble as well). but it is incredibly difficult to get any decent bikes or bike parts in kenya. he normally buys used stuff that arrives in containers from europe, japan, and north america.

I am looking for a way to support him with parts, accessories (and possibly bikes), used or new, so that he can continue with this work and not go broke buying our used stuff!

i am going to put out a call for any bike enthusiasts who have quality bike parts, accesories, or connections to those who do, who want to donate them to a kenyan bike club.

leave a note or email me if you have anything or are interested in supporting cycling in kenya!

asante sana

links to kinjah's riding... (rides the cape epic in south africa every year)
http://cyclingnews.com/mtbphotos.php?id=/photos/2008/mar08/capeepic08/capeepic080/CE_Prologue_KS138
http://bike-zone.com/mtbphotos.php?id=/photos/2007/mar07/capeepic07/capeepic075/ce04297

less like scars

It's been a hard year.
But I'm climbing out of the rubble.
These lessons are hard.
Healing changes are subtle.
But every day it's...
Less like tearing more like building.
Less like captive more like willing.
Less like breakdown more like surrender.
Less like haunting more like remember.
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars and more like character.
Less like a prison more like my room.
Less like a casket more like a womb.
Less like dying more like transcending.
Less like fear, less like an ending...
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
Just a little while ago.
I couldn't feel the power or the hope.
I couldn't cope, I couldn't feel a thing.
Just a little while back.
I was desperate, broken, laid out.
Hoping you would come.
And I need you.
And I want you here.
And I feel you...
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt.
look less like scars.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
And more like character...
(lyrics by sara groves)

i have had some pretty tough times in my year here in kenya. i have had babies die in my arms after trying to resuscitate them for 5 hours. i watched a mother die of Aids and leave behind 4 children under the age of 11. i witnessed a man being beaten to death for petty theft. i coped my way through post-election violence and listened to horrific stories of torture and murder.

somehow, i have made it. but a recent event in my life has completely devastated me.

last week i was suddenly terminated from my position. i am not able to share the details with you but it was shocking, hurtful, confusing and devastating.

as the lyrics above say, "i am digging my way out of the rubble"

i am heading to tanzania at the end of this week for some R&R, to visit with a couple of friends, contemplate on the beach. i will be returning to canada sometime at the end of september. i don't know my exact plans from there. i will be seeking some re-entry counseling so that the transition goes as smoothly as it possibly can. from there, i don't know.

i don't know what else to say. i don't know what to pray. this morning in church we sang a song about casting our cares on God and allowing the Holy Spirit to come and fill us up. i started crying. i pray i can do both of those things.

i hope that i learn from this experience and grow into a better person that can continue serving God and people in whatever capacity he has planned for me.

Thank you in advance for your thoughts and prayers in this extremely difficult time.

ironic

there are so many things i wish i could take photos of or describe vividly to you that make me pause. some are funny, some are tragic, all are ironic.

it is ironic when you see 3 traditional maasai women each wearing their 25-30 necklaces, earlobes drooping to their shoulders, buying their beads to make their distinctive jewelery from indians in a shop in nairobi that is so obviously dangerous that all the windows are barred and a security guard has to let you in the door.

it is ironic to look for "african" cloth in kampala, uganda only to find that the black africans are selling cheap polyester made in china and the indian africans are selling the "typical" african hand-dyed cloth made by black africans from a village.

it is ironic to see a maasai man sitting on an eldoret shopping street selling his "natural herbs" that cure all illnesses, but he is sitting on a wooden box drinking a coke and text messaging his buddies.

it is ironic that in canada, "punk rock" kids think they are ultra cool for stretching out their earlobes with plugs, while i walk behind an elderly man of 80ish whose earlobes are so stretched he has actually flipped them over the top of his ear to keep them from swaying too and fro.

it is ironic that to get a decent bike here, i had to buy it from a kenyan guy
who buys them from an indian guy who buys them from canadians, americans and europeans, who think they are no longer good enough to ride
and they are shipped to kenya to be bought back by canadians, americans and europeans
who are desperate for a bike good enough to ride in kenya.

it is ironic that the coffee mugs i bought for my friend at a local supermarket are actually Ikea mugs that were made in China.

it is ironic that although there are scores of countries to report on in africa, the national newspaper carries at least a full page on barack obama and the american election every day. i know more about the current american campaign than i ever knew about a canadian one, and i am not currently living in either of those countries.

it is ironic that in a culture that values children so much, people so easily ignore the 7 year old drug addict begging for money to buy food and fuel his glue addiction.

old skool

you know you are old when you go back to school and your brain actually hurts.

i have been going to school for the past 2 weeks and have 2 more to go. i am taking a class called "training of facilitators" for people working in community based health care. it is jam packed with information and group work (we all know how fun that can be) and i am generally pretty tired by the end of the day. let me sum up what a typical day at school looks like. (i will combine details from different days for brevity).

I am staying with my friend Amanda in her townhouse not far from the training centre. I set my alarm for 6:30 so that i can get up and turn on the water heater for the bath. the heaters here are turned on manually so as to save money on gas. i crawl back into bed for another 30 minutes hoping for some good last minute dreams. after some cornflakes, i brew some coffee and put it in my spill proof starbucks coffee mug, throw it in my backpack, jump on my bike and start praying that i don't get killed. i have to fight my way through a throng of matatus all lining up outside the path from kibera (the slum) as thousands of people are heading to work. i head to the freeway and hope i don't make any permanent pitstops at the funeral home i pass each day. i whizz through the traffic circle and hope the cars think of me as one of them. as i pass the local airport a small private airplane takes off for its safari in maasai mara. i turn into the driveway of the training centre (African Medical and Research Foundation) oddly noting that on my right, not far away is an elementary school, straight ahead is a prison, and to my left is my school. on one particular fine morning they had the prisoners in their black and white striped outfits pruning the trees. one nearly fell out of the tree when he whipped around to loudly greet me. just another day in nairobi when you're "givin high fives" to the prisoners on the way to work...

i enter the classroom and start greeting in as many mother tongue languages i can remember. one of my classmates from kartoum, sudan, has taught everyone how to say good morning in arabic. when he sweeps in the room he shouts "saba alkier!" and you hear 25 people shout back "saba alnoor!" very enthusiastically. my classmates are from all over east africa, including kenya, sudan, and somalia. there are doctors, nurses, pharmacists, and clinical officers. they work for the red cross, cdc, goal, world vision among others. the experiences and stories are rich and varied.

it was decided as a group that every day be opened with prayer. this is such a change from a north american meeting. in what "secular" place would a meeting start with prayer? the interesting thing is, is that the class is not all protestant christians. there are muslims, christians, catholics (my neighbour is a nun), and total non-believers. we have prayed in english and arabic, to Jesus and to Allah. it is always an interesting start to the day.

we usually begin with a short lecture followed by group work. i usually start heated discussions in my group and sometimes we end up talking much more about other topics than our assignment (this should come as no surprise to people who know me). yet, we always seem to come up with some of the most comprehensive presentations. one of my group members likes to say that a group that bonds produces good work. so i guess we are bonding.

tea time and lunch break continue to be living classrooms for me. i learn more cultural lessons over a steaming cup or a plate of food than in the classroom. i have learned about "alternate uses" for coca cola and lemon juice, how the prostitutes in nairobi operate, that a woman in somalia garners a lot of respect and will rarely be shot in conflict, what a guy is really saying to me when he says "i love you so much, let's talk more" (i can be so naive) and so many other interesting things that are too numerous to list.

people are also fascinated with canada and often ask me what it would be like to study there, if people would stare at them on the street, if there are africans there, how cold it is... there is rarely a dull conversation. i get alot of comments that "you talk alot. but please don't stop. it's so interesting."

the day ends with me collecting all the evaluation forms and delegating the task to one of my co-students as I was elected to be the "evaluation form coordinator." a title i can put on my resume perhaps...

i retrieve my bike from behind the guards' building and ride beside my walking classmates. they express shock that i am riding a bicycle as opposed to a motorbike or car and think i am a bit crazy for riding in the same lanes as cars, but they heartily send me off with well wishes for safety.

i pass the herds of indingenous cows that are being herded by little maasai women or young men in leather jackets. no one, including myself, thinks it is odd to see 50 cows walking down a freeway in the middle of nairobi. i push myself up the hill desperately trying to stay ahead of the old man on a one speed bicycle who seems to have an effortless cadence. once in my friends large estate i ride by the drunk car minders who reach out their hands to give me five. i slap a few of their hands, figuring it is better to keep the throng of young, drunk men on my good side. but i change my pattern of coming and going everyday so as to avoid someone easily following me. sometimes i say a small prayer as i go by the boys and men who sniff glue and literally live in the garbage pile, eating our leftovers and finding treasures in our trash.

when i glide up to my friends front gate, i get out my giant key ring and start sorting out which key opens what lock. i undo the front gate and lock it from the inside. then i go through her laundry room, unlock another door where i store my bike. i unlock the two front doors and have to be sure to lock them again behind me (i NEVER locked my door in calgary). i dump my bag by the door, turn on the computer and check email and facebook. i watch a lame movie with my friend and crawl back into bed by 10. ready for another day of prisoner greeting, cultural learning, laughing over tea, and oh yeah, a little school too...

idp

idp

internally displaced person.

an acronym that all kenyans are now terribly familiar with.

alida fernhout, rn, bn, idp.

and now i feel like an idp. many people have asked if my house is fixed and i am back living in it. the answer is negative to both. i am bouncing around. there is a house but not a home. i am not able to live in my home or eldoret. i feel a little displaced.

i spent about 10 days staying at a house in eldoret town and commuted to the village on my motorbike. i then went to nairobi for a small "reading recess" and took a week long course on "hiv/aids and water, sanitation and hygiene." during that time i have stayed at my colleague's home. while in nairobi, some "things" happened and these "things" are very complicated so it is difficult to explain or discuss. but let's say that it has prevented me from going back to my home in the village. i flew on the weekend to eldoret to get some necessary things such as my bike and computer. i stayed with some dutch friends at their home.

i am now back in nairobi staying at my colleague's home until i start a month-long course on the other side of town. then i will move to a friend's house for the month of august.

needless to stay, i am living out of a bag and feel like a bit of a transient. but now i have my bike and my mac and these things are like "home" to me.

i can't give details, but if you could pray that the whole messy situation is sorted out, i would be grateful. i look foward to getting back "home" and dropping idp from the acronyms behind my name.

house on fire

well, i wasn't sure what to call this blog. so, why not be straight forward?

my house started on fire on saturday and my kitchen is toast, the rest of my house is black, and everything i own stinks like burned plastic.

but i'm okay. for now. i think.

in fact, i can see clearly how God was working in all this. now don't get me wrong. God didn't burn my house down. and i know he is all-knowing and infinite and everything and could have miracously stopped the fire, or even prevented it. and i am not happy my house burned, but i believe there is a purpose for everything. and i saw a whole lot of purposes.

let's get back to the dirt bike. because it has a part or purpose in it. i was having trouble starting it yesterday. something with it being brand new, apparently they don't like starting. my friends gardener went and found a british guy in their neighbourhood who apparently knows about motorbikes. he came over got it started and then gave me an x games lesson on how to ride a dirt bike. i learned more from him in an hour than any and all kenyan lessons combined. he took me for a freakin crazy ride - we were literally flying through giant ditches, mud, gravel, slamming on brakes. he is a little ADD but he both encouraged me and scared the daylights out of me. but good ideas on how to avoid getting pancaked by a semi truck while trying to go around herds of cows and bicycles.

so, with his advice, i went riding on the dirt roads in the farms this morning pretending to be a mini carey hart, minus flying in the air and breaking all my bones. i was riding in and out of ditches, through big crusty mud patches. pretending like i owned the place. i stopped over at the chiefs house as i hadn't been there in the 9 months i have lived in the village. we are sitting there chatting and my phone rings. i hate answering my phone while having interesting conversations, so i silenced it and kept talking. a minute later it rings again and i see that it is my colleague at the hospital. i find that strange as she never calls me on a saturday. the chief said "go ahead, answer, it's no problem." so i say, "hey esther, what's going on?"

"your house is on fire!!" she says breathlessly.

"my house is on fire!!??"

i literally leaped across the room and raced to my bike. i rode like mad back to my house. and thanks to my self-imposed x-games morning lesson, i rode with confidence and aggression. even the cows got out of the way!! (for real)

i kept watching the horizon for billowing smoke. it's hard to concentrate on pot holes when you imagine your house burning down. and i realized how selfish i was in that moment. my first thought was not of "is anyone hurt?"

but "i hope my mac isn't on fire!!"

then, "i just bought all those beads to make jewelery with the women. what are we going to make now?"

i ripped up to the house to see a small crowd but no shooting flames. okay, good sign.

i ran to the back of the house to see smoke coming out of the kitchen and people standing around saying "pole" (sorry).

the fridge and my very nice microwave are toast (yes, i do not have running water but i have a microwave. so i am a lazy cook), the kettle melted into something resembling a cake, the paint is burned off one wall.

but i cannot be more thankful.

yes, thankful. my kitchen burned, right after i had finished painting it a beautiful white and red, but i am blessed.

the doctors wife happened to walk by at a time when she was not planning to and noticed the fire. she alerted my neighbour, also the hospital maintenance guy, who happened to refuse to drive some people to town that day, feeling like he had to stay at the hospital. he is one of the only people who knew where a working fire extinguisher was and put out the fire. the fact that a fire extinguisher at the hospital worked is also a miracle!

i wasn't home and therefore not hurt. the half full gas tank standing in the middle of the fire did not blow, which would have surely leveled the house. it happened during the day and not at night when i was sleeping and may have suffered or been killed by smoke inhalation. i was prepared to ride my dirt bike like a bat out of hell because a brit happened to scare me into it the day before. and God knew what was important to me. my mac is not burned, and my coffee bodum is still standing on my kitchen counter perfectly intact, still with coffee in it. my mountain bike is covered in black soot but still waiting patiently for me to ride it. all my clothes stink like burned plastic, but i can provide income to some local women to wash everything in my house.

i also believe there is a greater purpose in all of this. i will experience personal growth, of course, in trusting that God has a plan. a couple of things have struck me. the devastation of a fire is strange. and fires were on the top of the list of damage done during post-election crisis. people's homes and properties were burned to the ground. i now have a small taste of what is like to lose something you've worked for. it was a bit traumatizing and the fire was not even deliberately set. but perhaps now, i have a sense of empathy for the victims of the recent violence that i did not have before.

it is also a way to build relationships with people in the community. you see, i have been told that people generally believe that nothing bad happens to white people. that they are all rich, they never get sick, they have no worries. i have had several experiences that have helped them see otherwise. i burned my leg quite badly earlier this year, and they had not seen a white person's flesh before. they exclaimed "it looks just like our flesh!"

a few weeks ago, i tripped and completely biffed in town. i was flying through the air, arms flapping, trying not to fall. but i skidded through the gravel and ended up with a bleeding arm and a bruised ego. people just stopped and stared. they were literally stunned, frozen. no one moved to offer a hand. when i recounted this to my colleague, she laughed and said "we don't believe white people fall. or get hurt. we believe they are perfect."

my massive tumble was a demonstration that white people can also demonstrate poor coordination:-)

my home starting on fire, and me starting to cry on arrival really demonstrated my vulnerability. as a person. as a child of God. i am not the invincible white person who has everything going for them all the time. i also suffer tragedy, i experience pain, i shed tears. and i think it might be a powerful witness and a growth in my relationship with the community. it might be a stretch but i think that potential is there.

so, i am blessed. i am blessed that i am alive. i am blessed that it was only my kitchen. i am blessed that my mac computer, my ipod, and my bodum are all intact:-) i am blessed to have the genuine concern and care of so many people. i am blessed that for this moment, i can see the positive change in an unfortunate situation. i am blessed.

see photos...

http://picasaweb.google.com/alidafernhout/HouseOnFire

p.s. from the home office: see the link to the left if you would like to make a donation to alida... (note the donation will not go directly to me, rather to my work...)

motorcycle diaries - the saga continues

i have had my license for awhile now, but the motorcycle remained elusive. partly "this is kenya" partly "kenyan government bureaucracy." the phone call came from a colleague yesterday.
"we are sending it to the courier as i speak to you. you should have it by tomorrow morning."

i have learned, however cynical it seems, to believe it when i see it.

but i couldn't help but stupidly grinning during the entire 45 minute walk to the junction today. a degree of freedom has finally come!! not being stuffed with 29 other people into a minivan!!

i ran several errands in town, waiting for the supposed phone call from the courier company. while crossing a street, a large truck from the company tried to run me over. when i started crossing, the driver actually stepped forcefully on the gas and i had to leap off the road. the passengers laughed as they passed.

i never received a phone call so i finally decided to just go there and hopefully my motorbike would run out to greet me. and of course, there it was, waiting patiently.

while one worker went to check on the status of the delivery, i asked the other woman if there was a fuel station nearby where i could get fuel. she stared blankly at me (she had just finished doing a massive nose pick, maybe she went too far and nudged some brain tissue).
"no, i don't know. there's no fuel."
"do you know where the nearest fuel station is?" i asked again.
"maybe around nakumatt?" she replied.
okay, nakumatt is a grocery store about 5 km away on a street with no gas stations in sight.
perhaps it was my strange canadian accent, so i tried again. and they don't call it gas here,
they call it fuel, but pronounce it more like fuewhhel.
"you know fuel, petrol, gas, benzine. that stuff you put into cars. is there a station close by where i can buy some?"
more blank staring.
"you have to go back into town for that. i don't know."
i was literally stunned. i think she still had no idea what i was talking about.

i was then allowed near my motorbike, and so i asked the new guy.
"do you know if there is a fuel station here where i can buy fuel?"
"yes, of course, just around the corner, only 20 metres away. i will get a jerry can from the mechanic."
okay, so it was not my accent, my english, or my wording. i don't know what was wrong with that girl.

he comes back with a jerry can but doesn't hand it over until he launches into a passionate plea how he is actually a pastor and is called to do the work of God, but it doesn't pay the bills, so he has to work for the courier company, but he wants to study counseling and do i know someone who can pay for his courses?
seriously, there is something about me getting a motorbike and people asking me for money. the police man who administered the driving test also asked me to pay for his sons university education in canada!

so i head on over to the fuel/gas station with an oil container where i ask the guy to please rinse all the oil out of it. he assures me it is no problem to put oil in the gas tank. i assure him that i want to take good care of my motorbike and therefore, no oil will enter the gas tank. as he is writing my receipt and before he hands me my change he says "so, you will let me keep the change?" with a big grin.
"no, you are not keeping the change." i say with a straight face (the change is almost $4, not something like 50 cents) and head back to the courier.

by then a small crowd has gathered, the mechanics came out to ogle the bike, but they were also very helpful in showing me all kinds of nooks and crannies on the bike. like where there is a small tool kit hidden under the seat, how to remove things, which buttons to press etc. they put my side mirrors on and got everything ready to go. i was very appreciative and was ready to jump on the bike and head home when it started to rain. hard. we ran for cover and hoped it would pass in a few minutes. not 30 minutes earlier i had been sweating in the sun!

i waited, and waited, and waited. i read the newspaper, sent text messages, ate some chips. told them how their delivery truck tried to run me over. it just rained harder. i asked God what he thought he was doing. i had waited months for this motorbike and then he sends a downpour? i decided to go into town to eat and wait some more. i just couldn't bear to go home without my motorbike.

i slowly ate my coconut chicken, took photos for the people at the neighbouring table, drank some bad instant coffee and stared out the window as it continued to rain. i seriously asked God what he was doing. as if my patience was not tested enough! the problem was, there is really no dry way for me to get home except in a taxi, which costs a fortune. i could have taken a matatu to the dirt road, but then i would literally have to stand in the rain waiting for a random car to hopefully go to my village. i decided to wait some more.

i bought some groceries at the aforementioned nakumatt and emerged from the store hopeful. only a few drops! good enough for me! i headed back to the courier company. i decided to catch a cab because i was tired of walking back and forth. the driver stopped to put in half a litre of gas. yes, half a litre into a car. but with gas costing about $1.80 a litre and most people here make a fraction of a north american or european salary, i suppose that is understandable. we had an interesting conversation about why the people in his Christian church wear turbans and he asked me how it is possible that a "born again" Christian smokes because that is a grave sin that apparently negates your faith. i explained that yes, smoking is a sin, but no more a sin than gossiping, swearing, getting angry, or any other sin that any non-smoking Christian commits. so how can we judge someone else's faith in Jesus Christ because "their sin" is more evident than ours. he thanked me and said he understood my point.

finally, back with my motorbike, no rain, gas (or shall i say fuel) in the tank, ready to go. a bunch of armed police men in camouflage were standing around my bike. i asked them if they were the army or worked for the courier company. apparently, they are the army for "private hire" because they have guns and the company doesn't. i asked one guy if the guns were actually loaded and he suddenly popped out the part that holds the bullets, and well, there were alot of bullets. i jumped a bit when he popped it out (i haven't watched enough movies to know what that piece of the gun is called). they all laughed at me. six guys with loaded machine guns. i guess it is better to have them laughing at me than be angry with me... they assured me the safety catch was on and they all proceeded to show me their guns. i thanked them profusely, then was ready to go.

well, i couldn't get it going. i had to get the mechanic to start it. seems that i am so nervous that my legs are like jelly and don't have the strength to even kick start it!

by this time, it is rush hour traffic. could be okay, or i could die. rush hour traffic is not north american rush hour traffic. it is not nice and orderly. it is wazimu. crazy.
i only had to go straight down one road. but people really don't think lanes are important here, or signaling, or not overtaking when it isn't safe. throw in the pedestrians darting out of nowhere, huge trucks passing me with only a whisper inbetween us, and you have a very nervous alida. my first time riding a motorbike on a road, in rush hour traffic after a rain storm. (well, there was riding a moped in florence, italy, with no helmet, through 8 lanes of traffic... but you know i was 20 and invincible).
i make it out of town and onto the highway. the praying begins. big time.
it is amazing how complacent i have become as the passenger in a matatu. it seems normal to swerve on the road to avoid potholes and have cars driving in your lane, except they are coming at you, from the opposite direction. i don't usually blink when it happens. someone calls "chicken" and moves. however, now i am the chicken. all the time. several cars are coming straight at me and all i can think to myself is "holy sh#!? where am i going to go?" there is no shoulder, only a sharp drop off to some dirt.
i realize how vulnerable i am on a motorbike. on a bicycle, i actually feel safer. i can move easier as my bike only weighs 20 pounds instead of 200. now, i am at the mercy of the other vehicles. i can drive safely all i want, but if that car decides to overtake at the last minute... i just prayed that i would black out immediately and not feel the pain!

i finally arrived at the junction, where i now have to drive through mud.
"Come on God, all of this in one day?"
i stop and greet my fellow motorbike drivers. i get alot of handshakes, and "jepkemboi, can i please drive it, just a little ways?"
i decline and make my way through the mud. it is kind of like hydroplaning, for 4 km.
i park it in the rickety garage next to the vehicle straight out of "the gods must be crazy" and breathe a massive sigh of relief.
now i am not much of a charismatic person at heart, but i wanted to holler "Praise God!"

this is kenya.
and these are my motorcycle diaries.
now, please pray.

work

my blogs have not been reflecting it, but i do more than go on bike rides and play with kids at IDP camps. i "go to work" everyday, although my definition of work is changing. sometimes "work" is drinking tea with people or walking on the side of a highway for an hour looking for a home of someone living with HIV.

one of the projects i have been working on is teaching a few ladies some crafts/skills so that they might hopefully earn money to feed their children and buy tea leaves and sugar. we chose 4 women, all of whom are clients of the Community Based Health Clinic. They are at very high risk of needing to engage in risky activities (i.e. brewing local beer or trading sex for food), yet they have difficulty finding employment. they all have young children in the home which restricts them from finding casual labour jobs. two of them are illiterate (although Maria proudly showed me that she can write her name and add numbers).

i have been teaching them how to cut and fold chip bags and transform them into purses and wallets. so far, they have been perfecting the folding technique; i constantly need to enforce and encourage high quality work instead of high quantity work. i have just introduced them to the cutting part. remember, what is easy for someone with years of education, is a major challenge for someone who can't read or write and has never used a ruler. i devised a pattern piece so that they can trace it onto the paper and then cut. even cutting a straight line can be a challenge some days. but i am very proud to say the women caught on extremely quickly and are proud of their accomplishments, however slowly they are coming.

three of the women concentrating very hard on the task at hand

i also invited a local businessman, who owns a souvenir shop, to come and teach them how to make beads out of magazine paper. i sent them home with a magazine, scissors, and glue. maria returned yesterday with hundreds of beads! i dipped them in varnish for a finishing touch while she cut and folded foil wrapping paper for a wallet.

Robert teaches them how to carefully cut magazines to transform into beads

the wallet on the left is one i bought in the US.
on the right is the one that Maria folded the pieces for,
and i just figured out how to sew together.
i will next teach the women how to sew the pieces together.

i have to admit, sometimes i have an inferiority complex about what i do here in kenya. while waiting for my luggage at the airport in nairobi, i once heard two ex-pat women sharing with eachother what they do for a living. the british woman, in her london accent, remarked "oh, i consult here and there for the UN, the Embassy, and other NGO's when i'm not busy with the 3 kids! you know how busy that can be! hahaha!" I was standing behind her, thinking, "Oh yeah, well I have 2 university degrees and I fold chip bags for a living! So there!"

but it struck me a few weeks ago while i was sitting around the table with the women as they diligently folded their rectangles, listening to them talk (in swahili) about their medications, which clinic they went to, how many kids they had, which pastors were doing what in which villages (not good things, by the way), that this "craft" time was also an opportunity for the women to just be women, to be mothers sharing a cup of tea while fellowshiping. they rarely get that chance "just be." maria shared with me yesterday that making the beads and folding the paper at home helps her to stay busy and keep her mind occupied and she is grateful for even that small change.

will i start the next "red" campaign here? i doubt it. i just hope to find a local market for the items that will sustain the women while they continue to develop new skills, grow in confidence and provide for their families without risking their lives or dignity. (however, we are also not opposed to an international market:-) )

the other activities i have been involved with are joining the environmental club at the local girls high school, demonstrating a simple solar oven and fireless basket (both of which I hope to develop as income generating projects for other support groups), arranging and helping with volunteer trainings, and i hope to start a community health group in june (that is if people show up, and hopefully not 3 hours late). i will act as a facilitator of the group to help them identify health problems in the area, and "steer" them towards identifying hygiene and sanitation issues (a doctor at the teaching hospital told me that 70% of pediatric admissions have to do with ameobas). a michigan group is coming to introduce water filters, so i hope to liaise with them regarding that project.

through all these things, from folding chip bags to cooking with the sun, to teaching handwashing, i hope i can contribute to the overall health of the community. not quite neurosurgery or consulting for the UN, but i know there is a bigger purpose that i haven't realized yet.

picture this postcard

having no vehicle, i take self-propelled adventures. i grabbed my bike today and headed out to a road i had never been before.

the purple grey clouds banked the horizon, threatening to release their moisture at any time. but with the sun at my back, i risked a shower. i passed crowds of kids just out of school, all waving and shouting "mzungu" even though they know my name.

the red road rose before me. i could not see the end of it over the horizon, and i wondered if i might fall off the edge in a few moments time. to my right, green stalks of maize were struggling out of the hard red soil. to my left, nothing planted yet. the farmer is waiting to plant his wheat. who ever it is has a huge farm and i passed nothing but soil for several kilometers.

the sound of a match striking draws my attention to the ditch. however, it is not a match but the simultaneous snap of wings of tiny black birds startled by my intrusion. they burst out of the ditch, and in formation cross my path. all at once, together, they bank to the left, flashing their orange underbellies. i am in awe at this simple gesture and the surprise of a bright hue. maybe their way of saying "hey mzungu"

i wish i had my camera as my mind's eye takes in the view. an acacia tree stands alone on the horizon in between vast fields waiting for the rains. i reach the rise in the road and drink in the normalcy of village life. modern houses stand next to mud huts, 3 children stop their digging to wave and smile. a woman carries a heavy load on her head. a child of 7 is herding over 10 cows.

delicate cranes tiptoe through the untilled field. their careful gait resembles socialite ladies walking in high heels in the thick carpet of an opera hall. their blue backs, white bellies, and black faces are a fancy costume for the simple farm they visit. their mohawk of yellow straw is halo like, or perhaps a crown of gold to match their stunning outfits and proud walk. when i stop to quietly watch them walk, they glance back at me, and as if snubbing my trousers and dirty sandals, ever so slowly take off in flight to join better company.

i turn back as the purple of the clouds is giving way to a more ominous black. i smile at the shocked faces of men as i ride my yellow, multi speed bike past their one speed "black mambas." school children who were dawdling home, are now jumping over the maize mounds to get home and disappear into the tall green grass. i love how their pink shirt collars poke out of their burgandy sweaters and their white knee socks will not stay up to their knees no matter how much coaxing they get.

i descend down the last small hill before the hospital and navigate my way over the jagged rock. it reminds me of downhill riding in whistler. my arms begin to itch with the vibrations of the rocky road. i pass the round yellow church before the hospital gate and 6 of my little friends scream "bye! bye! bye!" from the door of their mothers hair saloon. a motorcycle driver gives me a friendly nod from "one biker to another" as he parks his bike.

no camera today, but picture this postcard of plateau.

wish you were here.

things i love about kenya

I love red dirt roads, green fields, and blue skies.

I love that I am totally comfortable walking, running, or biking through a herd of cows and they don't even blink an eye.

I love that I can buy really good gouda cheese here.

I love iridescent blue birds that flit in my path when I am feeling sad.

I love full rainbows arching from valleys to fields.

I love that when I start speaking swahili in the market, the price drops dramatically.

I love that I am "baptized" with a name from every tribe.

I love the vast differences in geography and landscape - from volcanoes to salty lakes to blue oceans to huge valleys.

I love that when I go for a run, a 6 year old girl in a satin dress and no shoes kicks my butt.

I love playing football (soccer) in the school field and the girls team beat the boys team:-)

I love hot showers when I get to have them once a week. I will never take them for granted again.

I love that Kenya has really good coffee and that I can satisfy my caffeine addiction every morning with my Java and my bodum.

I love that I am the only woman I have ever seen ride a bike around my village and now young girls want to learn too.

I love that my Kenya mama watches WWF wrestling and loves Hulk Hogan are (well, I at least think it is funny!)

There are many things I love about living in Kenya and I have been reminding myself of these when I get irritated or frustrated.
What do you love about where you live?

motorcyle diaries in kenya

i am no che guevara and don't have books and movies named after me, but i have a tale to tell about getting a motorcycle license in kenya.

i signed up with Budget Drivers School who advertise "Very cheap and the best instructors." Okay, should have been my first clue, but Rocky Driving School admitted they kind of forgot to maintain or take care of their motorbike and thus couldn't offer me lessons at the time.

Day one
I was told I could show up "any time i wanted" which i found strange, but i took their word for it. i showed up on a monday at 1pm and was sent into a small classroom with two tables and lots of chairs. at least 30 people were crowded around a small table with a table top road set up and dinky cars. my instructor "brown" directed me to sit at the empty table and he started driving the dinky cars around. i thought perhaps i had come to the wrong place - was this a daycare or driving school? who plays with dinky cars on a play map of a town? well, my 3 year old nephew does. perhaps he could come get a kenyan license.

so the play map has a traffic circle with 4 lanes with 3 and 4 lane roads branching off 4 sides as well as a parking lot and a side street. we didn't really receive any instruction about kenyan road rules. just told to follow the blue car there with the red car here. so, i start, with my understanding of canadian traffic circles. "NO! you can't do that! start again." i was told. utter confusion on my face. the next student, grabs the red car, proceed to swerve the thing all over the road, make several u-turns, drives through the parking lot, goes through the traffic circle (or roundabout known here) and after about 5000 turns ends up behind the blue car. "Very good" says Brown, "did you understand that alida?"

"is that for real?" i question.

"yes, of course. what is the problem?"

"well, why did the car have to change 4 lanes from the right side of the road to the left, only to move back 4 lanes three seconds later in order to turn right?"

"well, you have to move to the slow lane of traffic, of course, and then move back into the right lane, or fast lane, so that you can slow down and make a right turn" replies Brown (by the way, his real name, not a "The Office" episode)

"i am sorry, but kenyan road rules may actually cause fatal crashes, rather than prevent them"

"well, when in rome, do as the romans"

so, for the next hour, i have to drive dinky cars around a play map around road blocks and thru parking lots. i am hoping they have snack time or something.

finally, it is time for actual riding on a motorbike. Brown hands me a gigantic helmet and a rubber rain jacket. the helmet is fit for a giant and has no chin strap. it immediately falls in front of my eyes and i am still standing on the street. I ask Brown where the straps are. He has never seen straps on a helmet and I show him where the attachments are inside for the straps; where they once were. He surmises that a student must have removed them at some time because they didn't like them. We get on the motorbike, he turns around, and insists that i do up all the buttons on the cheap rubber rain jacket for my safety. jaw gaping, i reluctantly button up the whole jacket and pray that we don't crash since the helmet will fly off before i hit the ground.
we stop at the gas station and he has them put in half a litre of gas. that should get us far! he actually has to shake the bike around to swish the gas around in the tank to see if it actually in there.
we drive to an empty field with a dirt road around it. Brown shows me the clutch, gas, gears and foot brake and tells me to start driving. he points out that the front brake is missing (again thanks to a previous student) but it doesn't matter because the rear brake is more important. i notice the clutch is almost vertical and i find it difficult to release slowly. that might because it is also partially broken. i start driving it around the road, and notice that it has no side mirrors, the spedometer doesn't work, the right side of the handlebars seemed to be attached with a piece of rubber, and the headlight is taped on. i ride around a couple of times and he motions me back to the centre of the field.

"so how was that?" he asks.

"well, most of what is on the bike is broken, and the helmet keeps falling in front of my eyes" i reply.

"oh, but is much better to learn on this bike, because it keeps you alert. if everything worked, you would fall asleep."

i then have to ride in small circles around a tuft of grass and move onto figure eights formed from random stones. i have to stop at one point because i am so dizzy that the grass is blurring together.

"great, we're done. i just have to stop at my house. i forgot something" says Brown and we head to "his place." i stand reluctantly in the parking lot. what driving instructor takes his student to his house? (don't worry, i was limbering up to use my self-defense moves).

we return to the office downtown to return the bike and high quality equipment. the school owner is yelling at someone at the phone and i slink out as quietly as possible so i do not suffer the same wrath.

Day two
i return tuesday morning, ready to play with cars again. but instead, 60 students are stuffed into benches in the too small room reciting road signs - or "sings" as the schedule indicates. i notice then, that someone in the office has a spelling problem. Friday is spelled "fhariday", saturday is "satir" and all signs are "sings." This does not bode well.

The instructor does not actually teach or explain road signs. the students are expected to memorize them off the handout given and then stand up and recite them for the rest of the class. most students mutter under their breath and no one pays attention. they are texting on their phones or yawning. the instructor walks in and out of the room, randomly deciding that the rehearsing student has made a mistake, like reading the signs out in a horizontal fashion instead of a vertical one. they have to start again.

fortunately, i escape having to recite them that day.
Brown and i take out the stellar bike again, once again, filling it with half a litre of gas.
i drive around in more circles while Brown relaxes and picks at the grass. i do notice though, that the dirt road i ride on simulates real conditions in that it is filled with potholes and garbage. i even get to compete with other cars - those being filled with learning drivers who seem to be terrified of the motorbike. they stop the car and freeze any time i come near them.
school children stop and stare. somehow they can tell it is a woman on the bike and they stop and stare as if it is the 8th wonder of the world. when i ride near them, they scatter and scream.
i drive in more small circles, figure eights for "my safety." apparently these are defensive driving mechanisms.
i am happy, though, that it feels totally natural to ride a motorbike. it must be in the genes.
day two is done. i haven't broken anything or fallen down. and the instructor didn't take me home.

day three
back to playing with cars on the wooden board. the instructors step up the difficulty and throw in road blocks all over the place. i have to try to figure out how to get around the road blocks, while obeying absurd kenyan road traffic laws. he then puts in some very easy situations, that as an experienced driver i figure out easily while my kenyan counterparts struggle. however, they seem to get the long routes with a million turns before i do.

before we head out to the motorbike, i have a word with the driving school owner. i admonish her for having such poor equipment and dangerous helmets. she shrugs and says the helmets came without straps. i assure her that they did not and show her where the straps should be attached. she becomes angry with Brown for not telling her that things are broken and how is she supposed to know if she doesn't ride a motorbike? She demands that he have straps attached for tomorrows class and doesn't care where he finds them.

back in the field, Brown tries to convince me that straps are not necessary and that the helmet falling in my eyes is to "keep me awake" while i am driving. if everything worked so well, i might fall asleep behind the handlebars. i then explain what working neurosurgery is like and the patients i took care of because their helmet came off. his jaw drops and his eyes bulge. he has never heard of anyone having to be fed by a tube or having their bum wiped because of such a severe head injury. he assures me he will find some straps somewhere.

Day four
i can't escape having to recite the road signs. while waiting for my turn, Brown tries to make me fill out information forms for future students and i put the pile of papers back on his lap. he then starts stretching his neck to and fro and saying "oh, i need a massage..."
"so, go get one" i say.
"oh, but where?" whines Brown.
"where ever they give massages" and i turn back to my handout so i don't blunder during my recital.

when i stand up and take the stick so i can point at the road signs painted on the wall, everyone stops their phone playing and yawning and sleeping. the mzungu girl is up and is she going to get everything right? i apparently state something wrong in the "regulatory" signs and some men in front of me start giggling.
"is there a problem?" i ask.
they keep giggling. apparently leaving a zone of 40km an hour is pretty funny.

then i start reciting the "information" signs. i say "restaurant ahead" and i am stopped by the instructor. "you don't need to say ahead, it just means that the restaurant is there. maybe it is behind you."
"okay, fine. restaurant. refreshments. camping area. caravan area...."

then i have to demonstrate the hand signals. when i start with left signal, which involves whipping your right arm up and down three times, then turning it in three giant circles. i get in trouble for turning my arm the wrong way. i tell the teacher that is it probably dangerous to be doing the front stroke with my right arm when i should be having them on the steering wheel in order to actually drive the car. i sit down and then get in more trouble from Brown for having had my left hand in my pocket while demonstrating the hand signals. Apparently, if i were to do that during the exam, or chew gum loudly in front of the police officer, i will fail the test. not because i don't know how to drive, but because i have my hand in my pocket.

Back in the field, i drive around while Brown lays in the grass. i am driving through a bumpy part when i see a half naked man bent over in the bush. his bum is facing me, his face is to the busy road. he is trying to go poo and i nearly hit several pot holes. i am shocked at first, but then i feel bad for him as he is still trying to go on my 4th way around the field. the poor guy must have been constipated.
when i stop in front of Brown, i explain about the man, not so hidden in the bush. he tells me "he is nuts and lives in this field." i tell Brown the man is mentally ill, but that Brown, himself, is nuts.
I ride in my circles and figure eights for half an hour.
on my final ride around the field, the clutch actually falls out of its resting place and is hanging off the handle bar. i have to put it back in place and hope it still works as i try to slow down. when i tell Brown, he says it is to keep me awake, and smiles.

Day five
Having taken the weekend off, i return monday morning for my last lesson. i manage to spend only 30 minutes driving the dinky cars before we head out.
as we drive to the field, i see combat police lining up on the road. riot police on a monday morning is not a good sign. the politicians had finally agreed on something on sunday and announced the cabinet. Brown tells me the Mungiki gang was demonstrating that morning (as he drove the wrong way through the traffic circle and then the wrong way down a one way road).
I stall the bike several times and swear it has something to do with the half working clutch. Brown is convinced it is my inability. I do my routine and at the end of the lesson have to take Brown on the back of the motorbike around the field several times to practice having another person on the bike. As i am speeding up, he suggests he puts his arms around my waist. i told him if he touched me i would throw him off the back of the bike before he knew what hit him.
(this is after last week when he asked if i had a boyfriend or fiance, and then called me several times over the weekend - phone calls i did not answer)
At the end of the lesson, he seems to have "forgotten" something at his house again. I ask if he takes his male students to his house. He acts very astonished and says "i don't do funny business! i am saved!"
okay, saved man, stop taking me to your house then...

Test day
Tuesday morning, i show up bright and early and i head over to the testing centre with 2 other students. it turns out they are social workers with a catholic agency and we work in the same area and will all be riding yamahas around the village.
we arrive at 8:30 and wait for something to happen.
at 9am the police officer in charge comes out of his office and we all stand at attention. for the next 45 minutes he gives a speech about how we should not be nervous and that we have practiced well and that no one will fail. the speech then becomes more sermon like when he starts telling us how we should and should not dress. if we are "showing our stuff" with low cut shirts, that reflects bad character and what will people think of us.
then, reflecting on mondays violence involving the gangs, he instructs us all to "pray and go to ch---"
"Church" replies the crowd.
(a kenyan thing that you complete only half the word and then wait for the audience to finish the word).
He finished his sermon with the instructions to "let the ladies go first because they have to go home and take care of the children and cook food for us."
i stifle my gasp and tell my new friends that i will withhold my comments until after i have passed the test.

we then sit on the grass in the hot sun for more than 2 hours waiting for something, anything to happen. i suspect the police officers are taking a nice long tea break.
finally they start calling in people for their oral exam and playing with cars (yes, they even have dinky cars in the exam). i am near the end and the police officer is surprised that a lady was left to the end. i manage to withhold comments. he calls me "fleln" (instead of fernhout) and he asks me where i work and what i do. i tell him i am a nurse in a village not far away.
"what is your lore?" he asks
"what is my role at the hospital?"
"no, what is the lore?"
"the role of what?"
"the lore of the road?"
"oh, the rule of the road?" ( i then am able to figure out which tribe he is based on his switching the letters r and l).
i answer his traffic questions, repeat road signs, and drive a dinky car around a traffic circle.
i am then instructed to go drive the motorbike in 3 circles around the parking lot and stop in front of the office. he will be able to see me from the window, while quizzing other students.

so, i get on the motorbike, and all other activity stops in the compound. all eyes are on the white girl driving the motorbike. it is probably still being talked about in people's houses.

i get called back in the office and congratulated on passing.
"Alida Danfelle" now has a license. i try to correct the fact that my middle name is spelled incorrectly throughout, but that is what is on my Kenyan ID card, so i stop arguing. as far as kenyans are concerned, i am alida danfelle.
as the police officer is filling out the paper work, he asks me to sponsor his son to go to school in canada. i clarify that he means pay for his university education. yes, of course that is what he means as he laughs. i tell him i am still paying for my own education and i also laugh. as long as he gives me the license. if he doesn't and still talks about sponsoring his son, i plan to point to the "no corruption" signs all over the walls. fortunately, i do not have to resort to that and happily take my papers.
but it is not over. then i am directed to another place. i squeeze my way through a broken door into a shack area. although 6 men are waiting their turn, i am told by this police officer that it is "ladies first." i don't argue as i have spent almost 7 hours sitting on a patch of grass in the hot sun to get my license, when the whole process could have taken no more than 30 minutes.
finally, i have my 20 papers signed and in order, but i do not yet receive my interim license.
i am instructed to return to the driving school the next day to get my certificate and then proceed to the Revenue Authority office where i have to pay more money.

so finally, today, i submitted my pile of papers saying i am a competent motorbike driver.
and i have not yet driven a motorbike on a road with other traffic.
this is kenya.
and this is my motorcycle diary.

a bike... at last

i love riding a bike. a good bike that is. one with gears and brakes that work.
i wasn't very impressed with the one speed chinese bikes in the supermarkets and the "mountain" bikes had their pedals put on backwards and non-functioning brakes, while still new in the store!

so, as i was walking into a nairobi shopping mall, and i saw a group of guys leaning on specialized bikes, outfitted with helmets and all, i just had to ask where they got their bikes. they looked at me suspiciously but finally gave me the number of their "manager." i found out later that they initially thought i wanted to accuse them of stealing bikes!

i got in touch with "the manager" who happens to be one of the few professional cyclists in kenya (david kinja) and we met at his "shop/house." i was practically drooling on the array of bikes, all used bikes non longer considered worthy by their owners from north america and europe. i chose a blue and white GT frame and he set about overhauling it for me. i certainly paid more than i would have in canada, but hey, the thing took a 10,000km boat trip to get here!

in january i was able to load it on a plane and bring it back to eldoret with me. it feels so good to ride a bike around the village, flying by the men as they are pushing their one speed bikes up the hills. but i do smile and wave:-)

i look forward venturing out more! i don't dare leave it anywhere though as it kind of stands out and kids like to play with it during church... but my kenyan father (Baba) was very impressed with it and was so surprised that he could lift it up with only one hand!!

my Baba (kenyan father) takes it for a test spin. i am
pretty sure he wanted to keep it.

my village vehicle. hopefully it copes well in the rainy season!

but what i love most is this...

i could give this blog a number of titles.

Why the children?

I want to beat drunk people with sticks.

Running into the pain feels like diving into a pool full of rocks.

So you have gathered that i have had a rough week. as a disclaimer, i had many a rough week while working in calgary also. i cared for many patients whose situations broke my heart. i counseled dysfunctional families on christmas day while they denied alcohol abuse. i cried myself to sleep on more than one occasion after the death of a patient.

i just didn't post my thoughts and experiences to a blog. partly because i probably would have been sued by the health region, but also because i had a patient roommate who listened to my venting and b*&%ching. but now i have you. the people who read this blog. i come home to an empty house and talking to the wall or the racing grannies on my mantle is not doing the trick.

so, if you want to hear about my days, continue reading and accompany on my journey. what i am sharing is simply what i am dealing with and trying to cope with. so if you continue reading, consider yourself my new global roommate.

the past couple of weeks have been trying. i have been witness, by sight and sound, to atrocities i could not imagine could happen. i have been part of some counseling sessions at the local girls highschool. i have listened to stories from teenage girls about the trauma they have experienced. one saw a kikuyu man burned alive just down the road while people shouted "we will have nyama choma (roasted meat) today!!". another slept in a swamp for two nights because chaos was ensuing all around her. yet another was forced to walk in the streets of kisumu shouting down kibaki in front of a strange funeral procession involving a snake and people dressed in wigs.

i have visited several IDP (internally displaced people) camps within a 50km radius of where i live. tens of thousands of people living in squalor because of their last name. or because they rented a home from someone with the wrong last name/tribe. i have sat with an elderly man under a tree while he explained that he was literally chased off his land and all his maize burned to charcoal. i have had 50 children hanging off my body (literally a child hanging off each finger) until i organized games on a lawn to distract them. i took hanna, an 11 year old, and her mother to emergency after she broke her arm while collecting firewood. i navigated the health system for her hard-of-hearing mother and then assisted the people in the cast clinic to set hanna's arm. with very little medicine for pain, i wrenched her arm one way, while the technician pulled it the other way, and all the while listening to hanna scream for mercy.

then there are my sundays. several sunday afternoons were taken up with arguing with people using and abusing a family of orphans. an uncle and his wife tried to stop them from going to a boarding school, because then their "income generating project" would be gone. they admit to using the children to get food and other items from "well wishers." they asked how they would feed their own children or get free things without the orphans around? then there was the headmistress at their former school. she had neglected them while they were there and then refused to release any of their belongings. we had to make several shopping trips to get new mattresses, clothes and school supplies.

things at the hospital get no better. i mercifully missed the birth of a stillborn baby, but inquired about the other baby in the nursery. a teenage mother gave birth at home and brought the baby that morning because it wasn't doing well. my short visit into the nursery turned into 5 hours of trying to resuscitate this premature newborn, only for her to die while i held her head in my hands. again, i wrapped the baby and offered her to the mother to hold, which she refused. instead, i sat beside her on the bench, the lifeless child in one arm, my other on the mothers back, and this time i could not hold back the tears. i quietly wept and asked esther to tell the young girl that she had done the best she could and we had done the best we could.

today, sunday, was another unenjoyable day. i went with one of our volunteers and several people from catholic relief services to the home of 5 orphaned children who have no support. we finally met the grandmother and two uncles, all of whom were drunk out of their minds. we spent several hours trying to figure out who was to care for these children (i mostly listen and try to quietly advocate through an interpreter). at one point the grandmother tried to get in a fist fight with the youngest uncle, of whom i suspect is sexually abusing the children, and then screamed "take these children away! i don't want them!" the anger inside me was trying to push itself out through hot tears. but i would not let them come. it was finally settled that an uncle and aunt would present themselves, sober, to the catholic clinic later this week for further talks. we left the food, soap, and clothes with the seemingly most responsible person, however, the drunk grandmother is known for stealing anything from the children.

but what i love most is this...

as i pick up cheryl and winnie, two of the orphans, in a bear hug, and swing them in the air, their exhilarating laughter tickles the most inner part of my ears and swells my heart beyond the capacity of my chest.

it is the only thing that keeps me going and gives me hope.

yet, even with all the frustration and pain, i have never loved a job more.

as an aside, i saw this quote on someone else's website. i guess i know i am not locking my heart in a coffin and that the laughter of innocent children is a piece of heaven on earth.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket - safe, dark, motionless, airless - it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.”

~C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

camps in kenya

last week i visited several camps for internally displaced people in kenya. tens of thousands of people living in tents, makeshift shelters, under tarps. homeless, with nowhere to go. some live close enough to their farm that they can go work on it, but their home was burned to the ground. even a 99 year old man was chased away because he lived in a house owned by someone of the "wrong tribe"
i have not been able to formulate thoughtful words about my experiences, but as per usual, i took hundreds of photos. i posted some of them to a web album. let the images speak without my words.

http://picasaweb.google.com/alidafernhout/RefugeeCamps

i also have some of myself with multitudes of children at the camps, posted under "me in kenya"

http://picasaweb.google.com/alidafernhout/MeInKenya


if you feel at all compelled to support the displaced people in kenya, you can donate to crwrc for this specific purpose: http://www.crcna.org/pages/crwrc_donate.cfm

money donated will be used directly to purchase items such as blankets, soap, cooking utensils, and medicine for the displaced people.

rafiki zangu

it never ceases to amaze me. that it takes moving 10,000km and multiple time zones away for me to truly appreciate my friends. i wait until i move to another continent to ask for prayer, when i really needed it right there in calgary. it took me moving to a small african village to realize that the same problems exist around the world and we are all working towards eliminating them, but help appears in different forms.

take my friend amy. she huddles in the back of a van with prostitutes and drug addicts, teaching them, testing them, listening to them, and above all, caring for them. she laughs at my lame stories and encourages my "rogue" activities to include the "c" portion of ABC! (okay, not your sesame street alphabet - "c" stands for condom. another blog, another day). i miss sitting together in kensington coffee shops drinking fancy coffees. i can tell her anything, or just sit in silence and feel like we had a heart-to-heart.

then there is elise, monitoring a plethora of IV lines snaking their way into her patient in ICU. she hums and sings in a melodic voice to her unconscious patient, comforting them, caring for them. and doing it all while wearing stylish pink crocs. she has introduced me to "dressing like a girl" and the mantra "I am smart, I am beautiful" to be repeated on a frequent basis, especially before exams.

you will find that patti moved from a nice, quiet area in her german town, to the inner city filled with drunks and drug addicts, so that she can minister to children desperate for a loving touch. i see her every few years but it feels as though no time has passed at all. we reminisce about days of old while she takes me on adventures to german villages and christmas markets to drink warm wine and eat fat sausages.

cindy has a heart for teenagers with big problems. she offers them refuge from unstable situations to bask in unconditional love. her passion for her friends is unbeatable. i will never be as good a letter writer or encourager as she. she has traveled to unbelievable places but finds contentment and a "mission" in small town alberta. her adventure has sent her head over handlebars on mountain biking trips and camping with a 6 month old. her energy never ceases to amaze me.

neda runs off her feet at work, but never neglects to make sure her patients have received a warm, comforting bath and are turned to face the beautiful view of the mountains from their hospital window. i miss our sewing sessions in my calgary living room and going to persian restaurants to try new food. i even miss administering her weekly needle in the med room at work!

i have so many incredible friends. it would take days to write about them. Karen, who sends me constant letters of encouragement, whether i live in calgary or kenya. Janice, who prepared a care package with some of my favourite things, to arrive on a frustrating day. Roula, who gave me a book about how to flirt and takes me to salsa lessons. Joe, who gives me tips on not what to talk about in front of cute boys (BM...W, i got it joe). Magda, who shared many cups of tea and frustration with me back in the dutch days, and still keeps in touch no matter where i go.

i could not be who i am without my friends. if i have any good qualities, it is not that i was born with them. i have been molded and shaped by the goodness of those kind enough to nuture me with their unconditional love and patience.

rafiki zangu. my friends.
asante sana. thank you so much.

finally something funny...

i have this black skirt that i bought at superstore last summer for $8. it is a stretchy cotton skirt that is versatile enough to wear as a tube top dress(haven't tried that yet!), or folds downs to be a normal skirt. i have grown to love it because it is easy to move in. especially when we do home visits. i usually have to climb over, under, or through wooden or barbed wire fences.

it has caused me some embarrassment however. last november i was up in kitale, kenya with the relief team on a food distribution. we were eating at a restaurant and i was heading into the main building. i stepped over a stone barrier, but the bottom of my sandal caught the back hem of my skirt. when i put my foot on the ground, it took my black stretchy skirt with it, fully flashing my big white butt! thank goodness, the restaurant was empty and no one was temporarily blinded.

the men at the supermarket were not so fortunate last week (or maybe they thought they were fortunate). i went to a place called Tuskys supermarket in downtown Eldoret to waste some time while my key was being cut. I decided to use their bathroom before I set out on my journey back home. all was fine until i walked out of the bathroom and back into the supermarket. I had a coffee mug hanging off my bag and I felt like it was leaking coffee on my butt even though it was empty. I moved it twice before I heard a low, short whistle from behind the blanket counter. Things were feeling a bit airy so I put my hand on my behind and discovered the hem of my skirt was stuck in the waistband. yup, flashing my double half moons at several supermarket workers.at least i had nice pink underpants on.

probably the first and last time they will see a white girls bum. needless to say i was a tad bit embarrassed, fixed my skirt, and ran out of the store. i spent the next two days holding the back of any skirt down over my butt should i cause further temporary blindness in kenya. the hospitals are full enough!!!

(and, yes, i still do wear the skirt. it is just too comfortable and versatile to retire!)