Visiting Freearea and the Chairman.

Hi again,

After writing this morning, I met with Dennis for our last morning together here in Nakuru. He left this afternoon for the Nairobi airport, from which he will fly overnight to London, and eventually the United States. He is making a tour of the Northeast as a representative of the East African part of the “PeaceTiles” project, sponsored by the APHIA II project and Family Health International. On his trip he’ll be giving talks at Princeton and Middlebury College, and also stopping in Providence for a day or two. (Anyone in Rhode Island or New Jersey interested in meeting him should send me a message or email, I’ll arrange for you to connect.) He is taking along several dozen small pieces of jewelry produced by two local groups, which he will be delivering to Taylor’s Landing Country Store in West Kingston, RI (via the kind assistance of Emily Greenhalgh.) He will have a small number of bracelets made by members of REPACTED (see one of my earlier posts for a little more detail), from which most of the profits will be returned directly to the group. He will also have nearly 50 beaded pins, each emblazoned with the internationally recognized AIDS ribbon and the colors of the Kenyan Flag. These have been produced by a support group composed of HIV-positive parents who are no longer able to work or provide income for their families. I will be meeting with this group later this week or next, and will have more information then.

After Dennis left, Odu and I climbed aboard a matatu to go to an outlying area of the city to meet with a support group of a different sort. The “Wachache Disabled Self-Help Group” is an assembly of roughly 25 physically disabled Nakuru residents who work together to provide themselves with extra income and support in times of need. Odu and I arrived in their neighborhood (strangely named “Freearea,”) and walked a short distance to the grassy courtyard where 9 members of the group awaited us. We were met by Otieno, the spokesperson of the group, whom I had previously met once before in town. Walking with the assistance of crutches, he met us warmly and sincerely in Swahili and led us back to the shelter of a very large shade tree covered in tiny purple blossoms. The group proceeded to introduce themselves, and I was surprised to hear that they were all employed (in a town like Nakuru, meeting 9 people who all have jobs is a rarity). Many of them were cobblers, with an electrician, a hairstylist, and a second-hand clothes retailer mixed in (in Kenya, almost all of the clothing is second hand, excepting traditional wear and touristy stuff.) In addition to their regular work (which in most cases probably doesn’t bring in more than a dollar a day), the group meets regularly to produce large batches of soap and detergent, which they each sell out of their individual shops and homes. The ladies of the group also meet regularly to crochet tablecloths, from which the profits are again shared among the contributors. Most importantly, the group believes that by meeting, and speaking in a unified voice, they will eventually be able to bring more attention to (and win more rights for) the disabled people of Kenya. Otieno is even running for a seat on the municipal council, and Odu tells me that he has a decent chance of winning. As we were preparing to leave, they began to ask me questions about disabled people in America, including questions about the Special Olympics and other disabled sporting events, artificial limbs and prosthetics, and stigmatization and discrimination. I answered as well as I could, but was surprised to realize how little I actually know about the situation of disabled people in my own country. It’s certainly an interesting question. Either way, I promised to do some research and see if I could find a comparable disabled persons organization at home to put them in contact with. If anybody knows any such groups, please let me know.

As we were leaving, one last member arrived in a large wheelchair that the occupant can power with a set of handheld bicycle pedals. He was called the “chairman,” by the rest of the crutch-and-cane using group members. I wasn’t sure if this was a sign of his rank in the group, or if it is just an ironic nickname. I stifled a smile and kept my uncertainty to myself.

The community of Freearea is also noteworthy for an unusual environmental situation that has recently come up. Due to uncharacteristically high rainfall in the region as of late (it has rained almost every day since I have been here, even though October is usually the hottest and driest time of the year – the locals chalk this up to global warming), and especially in the mountains rising above the city, a river has reappeared that hasn’t been seen for many decades. In the interceding time, many houses and even a small market had been constructed in what was once the riverbed. Thankfully, the river has returned at a very modest size, but nevertheless, a massive impromptu sandbagging and dredging effort was required to save numerous homes from becoming uninhabitable. Unfortunately, in the slums above (upstream of, I suppose) the market area, numerous houses had to be abandoned. And sadly, one young girl was killed on the night when the water first arrived.

As it stands now, the river cuts a continuous narrow channel across the slum area up in the hills, down through the market and a more prosperous neighborhood below. Boards, ladders, large branches, and other found materials now cross the steam at regular intervals, reuniting neighbors who had been unexpectedly divided. With typical Kenyan ingenuity, a small army of young people have set up numerous carwashes at the place where the river crosses the main road to Nairobi, making a little bit of money off of an otherwise negative event.

Speaking of the excessive rain, I had an interesting sensation the other night. I awoke from my sleep to hear the pounding of the rain on my corrugated metal roof. I immediately wondered if the windows were closed, and I sat up in a frenzy. My mind was racing “did I bring the dogs in?” “Is the car still open?” Of course, it wasn’t long before I recognized my surroundings and the anxiety passed, but the experience still served as a potent reminder that all of my possessions were with me in the room.

Everything I own fits into a backpack. There isn’t any more.
It’s a weird sensation.