Most of the children in Otho Abwao had clothes that were in relatively good condition, as well as sandals, although not all. They seemed to be pretty healthy and certainly had a great deal of energy. Perhaps my favorite find on the trip was a ball that some of the boys would kick and toss around. It had been made out of scraps of plastic and tied together with twine created from the fibers inside the abundant sisal plants.
At night in the village we would typically take bucket-showers. I eventually learned that postponing showering until the morning can be a pretty brisk experience, since the water we used was drawn from a 55-gallon bucket outside the latrines/bathroom. I slept on a mattress with a mosquito net suspended over it, which was quite a luxury in the area. I was informed that no part of my body should be touching the net, because the mosquitoes could still bite you this way.
The air inside the home was thick and hot, but the windows were left open to allow the breeze to waft intermittently inside. I would sometimes end my night by writing. Under the mosquito net with my self-powered LED lantern, listening to the foreign sounds of the east african insect orchestra, it felt like I was in a vast cocoon of otherworldly stimuli.
Unfortunately, I'm quite a restless sleeper, and every morning found that only about 1/5 of my body was covered by the mosquito net, the other 4/5 naturally being covered by mosquito bites. The first night I had passed out at a reprehensible 8:45 PM, so the little bastards had plenty of time to find the tastiest bits.
Breakfast generally consisted of chapatti and jam, and a lunch and dinner of rice, vegetable mchuzi, and some type of meat, whether it be chicken, mutton, or beef. I also relished in a little gem I discovered called Peptang Chili Garlic sauce, which made everything better, even though it was already quite delicious. Mrs. Akulo had the resources to hire some exceptionally kind women to cook and clean for her, one of which I later interviewed for her unique perspective.
In the afternoon, two of the engineers and I headed up the hill to meet with a group of people from the neighboring village. The temperature hovered around 80 in the afternoons. After spending three months sitting in various chairs in upstate New York, I had no shortage of perspiration. The setting for our rendezvous would be a giant church, which had been funded by a man from Tampa. We waited outside the church as people steadily filtered in. We noticed the existence of a very large rainwater cistern next to the church, and asked Joshua, a man who would act as our translator for the day, about it. He said that it had been built along with the church, in the mid-nineties, and was no longer functional. When we pressed him about it, he said that the pipe leading down to the tap, which was also visible, was too narrow and had become clogged. There was a brief silence, and then Ely asked what we were all thinking: "Has anyone tried to unclog it?" Joshua laughed and essentially repeated his answer to our previous question.
"Couldn't a couple of men take a day or two to try to fix it?"
"The pipe is buried much too deep," was the response.
I thought that this was an interesting insight. Even though water is incredibly scarce, and as a man would soon tell us "it is the thing that is killing [him]," attempting to repair the otherwise viable cistern did not seem to be an option. Based on first-hand empirical evidence and several books on the subject, I think this could be indicative of several things, but is most certainly at least one of them:
1. One mechanical error, design flaw, or output shortcoming can result in abandonment or non-adoption of a given technology, in favor of traditional methods. This phenomenon has been observed outside of Africa as well, most ostensibly in Central America.
2. When something is donated, no one assumes ownership, and thus the responsibility for maintenance is never assumed in a classic example of Garrett Hardin's "tragedy of the commons."
3. As a result of decades of colonialism and virtually indiscriminate aid practices from western civilizations, an overall sense of dependency has been created.
4. The men may simply not have enough time and energy to expend because of their daily responsibilities in obtaining the necessities for survival.
5. They do not have access to the necessary tools.
Soon an old man with a fedora cap and a cane approached us. We were informed that this man was known as the bishop, and that he had roused himself from bedridden illness to come meet with us. He shook our hands vigorously, and led us inside to his office, or whatever you might call it. We sat down in the chairs arranged around the small room and the bishop, through Joshua, thanked us for what we had done. When the bishop spoke, he spoke with dramatic gesticulation: clutching his heart and pantomiming as if he were wrenching the heavens from the sky and casting them about the room. In fact, I was quite convinced at several points that he was completely pissed off at us, but the translation always turned out to be something benign.
When the assembly had filled out, we entered the room, confronted by an anticipating audience of adults, about half men and half women, automatically segregating themselves to their respective gender group. What followed was a very unfortunate state of affairs which was not fair to either of us.
Our presence in the meeting was to gain the necessary information to apply for a project on the village's behalf. Apparently the word had been spread that we would begin implementation of a similar project following the Otho Abwao implementation, so hearing that we were only in the very first stages of the application process and we could not make any guarantees, the people were understandably agitated.
It's an unfortunate circumstance to try to resolve when you want to help. Telling the group that we would certainly be returning with a water distribution system designed specifically for them may give them hope in the short term, but if the application was rejected, they would find themselves waiting in vain. If we tell them we can make no guarantees, we look like petty bureaucrats and the people may be temporarily incensed, but they will have realistic expectations. Rightly, I think, we chose the latter. There was some very tangible tension, but they were clamoring to help when Ely told them we could get started on gathering health information immediately (regarding the incidence of water-borne disease).
That night I glimpsed some lightning on the horizon and I wished that we might wake to find there had been a downpour. The land desperately needed the moisture, and I would have loved to have seen how the village reacted. Alas, we had no such luck.
The following morning the EWB group packed up their things and left after a breakfast of chapattis and juicy mango, leaving Ely and I the only mzungu in the village. I have to admit, I didn't do an incredible amount of work toward the implementation of the water system, due in part to the fact that we simply arrived much later. Regardless, I felt a sense of freedom which I indulged by wandering around the village with Ely, poking and prodding at vegetation, asking questions and generally entertaining my unbridled curiosity. At the end of our wandering, we had to pass behind an old woman's house, who was asleep in her yard. A radio next to the cloth she laid on played colorful tunes while her head rested on a rock.
Ely had created an agenda for herself, which involved teaching a lesson about germs to the children in the school. I had no predetermined plan, and thought it might be fun and educational for myself, so we split up the lesson between the two of us and headed down to the school.
We stepped through a gate into the dry and cracked dirt of what might have been a playground. Some of the children craned their heads to look at us through the windows. I sometimes wondered what I might have looked like from their perspective - my bed-head crammed into a brown cap, forcing my hair to stick straight out from beneath it like a great stringy mane with a goofy pale face in the middle.
Soon we were standing in front of the remarkably attentive class, delivering our lesson with the aid of some nasty pictures of bacteria. Earlier we briefed the teachers on the agenda, and had encountered an interesting dilemma that I still don't fully understand. The younger children did not know enough english to understand us, so the teachers would translate into Luo. Apparently because there was not a proper translation, at least not that the kids would understand, whenever the teachers spoke about germs, they would use the word for "dirt." So, when we told the children that "when you play in the dirt, you can get germs on your hands," the teacher may have very well translated it in the "mother tongue" as "when you play in the dirt, you can get dirt on your hands." Overall though, the teachers seemed to do a great job of explaining everything, even the concept of microscoping magnification. To reinforce the retention of their lesson, they would repetitively ask for the class's input, to which they would promptly recieve an answer from the class in unison. When we were finished talking, we asked for questions. Ely went outside for a moment to take some pictures through the window, and a girl stood up and asked me how many liters of water she should drink in a day. Naturally, I stuttered a bit and looked to Ely, who swooped in with decisive grace to salvage my credibility.
We then moved on to the younger kids, grades 4-8 I believe, where we gave a more simplified version of the lesson. This time when we asked for questions, a little girl at the front of the class posed one to us. In fact, I may not have known it, if the teacher didn't call attention to her. The girls were often more shy than the boys. When she spoke it was barely audible, and as she did so, she shrank lower and lower in her seat, until she had literally crawled beneath her desk. The teacher laughed, and appeared to reassure her. I don't exactly recall what she asked, but it was nice to see that she was returned to her seat by encouragement rather than scolding.
As we left, I turned to see a little girl in a torn dress shuffling alone about the yard. Some things are just hard to wrap your mind around. Ely told me that, because of HIV, many of the children are orphans, and the sharp decline in attendance over the years that we'd witnessed in the school records betrayed a harrowing message that I had previously failed to understand: The insidious multitudes of disease conspiring against the futures of so many children.
She went on to tell me a story about a girl whose family could not afford to buy her shoes to conform to the dress code, or rather, uniform, for her school - she was denied the ability to take classes. Every school we had driven by had had a uniform, and I wondered how many kids were denied education for similar arbitrary infractions.
We returned to the Akulos' home, and after lunch I interviewed one of the housekeepers, named Judy. At one point, we were talking about applications for the fibers of the sisal plants, and she excused herself to go retrieve a basket. When she returned, she held an intricate basket of green, yellow, and magenta woven fibers. I pawed the bag curiously, examining every side, and expressed my admiration for the craft. She later gave it to me as a much-appreciated gift. I must admit, though, I felt a bit uncomfortable, because not only would it see better utility in Otho Abwao, but I really didn't do anything to deserve it.
In the afternoon, we were to finish our makeshift lecture circuit with the adults, which, appropriately turned out to be mostly women. Seats and benches were set up in the back yard, and, much like at the church, our audience filtered in one at a time. I'm still a bit skeptical, but at one point as a beaming old woman approached us, Ely told me that she was over 100 years old. She certainly looked old, but not quite as frail as I would expect someone of that age to look.
After what seemed like an hour, we asked if we should begin or wait a bit longer. The women suggested we wait another fifteen minutes.
It was a funny scene. Ely and I sat in front of the slowly growing crowd, and for the most part no one talked. Everyone stared about and seemed content to sit and wait in the shade provided by the two great trees at our backs, blossoming with vibrant blue and purple flowers. The sky was clear and the temperature comfortable, and from time to time a light breeze would blow through. I picked up seed pods from the ground and broke them into bits in a fidgety way, and was amused to see that I wasn't the only one doing something of the sort. I thought that someone who abides by a strict, quickly-paced schedule would lose their mind here, and was glad to not be one.
Once the group had sufficiently filled out, we talked with them about ways to keep from contaminating containers, and other general topics around the concept of sanitary water. Ely was presented a gourd as a gift from one of the women, who explained that it could be used for drinking soup or water, but could also be painted and hung for decoration.
Afterwards we retreated to the porch, where Mrs. Akulo, who was usually very blunt, asked, "Can I make for you, some popcorns?" We graciously accepted, and relaxed for the remainder of the night, trying not to dread the travel to Tanzania that awaited us the next morning.
When that time came, we had breakfast, packed up, and loaded our few things into the Akulos' mid-sized Toyota SUV. Both Mr. and Mrs. Akulo accompanied us the relatively short distance to Katito on the characteristically bumpy roads, at one point coming to a dead stop because of a cow loitering in the path. When we arrived at what, to me, looked basically like an intersection, the couple got out and helped arrange a ride for us. I had no idea exactly what we were in for, but we most assuredly would have been ripped off without their help.
We would be taking a matatu to the border - a 14-person van that is operated by a driver and a guy who hangs out the door and shouts after potential fares, who I'll call the "hawker." Each of the matatus are decorated differently by their owners, and the one we were soon being ushered into was called "The Roots," as indicated by a big green decal on the front window. The hawker slung our bags on the roof and hastily tied them up with some rope that extended into the cab. The interior had obviously seen a lot of use, but I had definitely seen worse conditions in some that we had passed. The floorboards were bare and covered in dirt, but the seats were well in tact and there was a truck speaker rigged just above the windows in the middle of the driver's side.
In a stroke of unbelievable luck, a family friend of the Akulos by the name of George was taking the same matatu to the same destination, and would come to act as our advocate throughout the many miles to the border at Isibania. Shortly after we clambered in, we took off at a pace that may have exceeded reason. After a few stops, we moved to the back with George where he would intermittently drop some knowledge on me about our surroundings, which was a great bonus.
Much like semi-truck drivers, we would crawl up hills and rocket back down them without using the brakes. Like so many things I'd experienced and would come to experience in my journey, the ride required that I surrender to fate. If we were to be crushed into a neat little package of flesh and metal, it was simply going to happen.
From Katito we traveled through Sondu and Oyugis, beginning the ascent into the Kisii highlands, where we had to switch to another matatu. George took some issue with the driver in what I assume was Swahili, and our fare was arranged to continue with the other. We followed the direction of our new hawker, pointing with his fistfull of Kenyan shillings. Ely crawled in the back and I joined two others in the first row behind the front. My knees were crammed against some sort of console and I soon had to smash farther over so that George could occupy the six inches of seat to my left. After a bit longer, and just as my legs were losing all feeling, the passengers in the front exited, and George and I moved to the front. Before I got in, I mentioned Ely, and George seemed to rethink the configuration, beginning to climb out. The matatus rarely stop for more than a few seconds, and the driver hit the gas to make his point, so we climbed in. I don't think I saw a single party get in or out with the vehicle fully stationary.
The Kisii highlands are much more lush and are home to acres and acres of sugar cane. I soon found myself enjoying the ride more than I could help feeling guilty for, my elbow out the window and the wind on my face. I saw some interesting stuff - bustling outdoor markets, endless fields, and a couple of women in otherwise traditional dress, one wearing a Ramones T-shirt, and one wearing a shirt with "BEAT USC" emblazoned across the front of it in huge letters. I had to laugh at the driving technique, when, after I was quite sure we would plow into the back of a bicyclist on an otherwise empty road, we overtook him with a gap of no more than a foot.
Eventually, more and more people poured in, and at one point, in the 14-person van there were 20 adults, one live chicken, two babies, and a man hanging off the side.
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