Visiting the brothel

Posted by: Helen

A post about computer viruses, and why work can be a puzzle

Grrrrr

With limited resources to keep PCs protected from malware, trojans, spyware and other nasties, computer viruses seem to be the scourge of Kenyan workplaces, and a real challenge for people like me, spoiled with IT departments throughout my whole career so far and now plunged into a very different world.


With regular office power cuts here in Nairobi, plenty of people visit the local ‘cyber’ (café) during the week and at weekends, having no PC at home. They carry their work with them on their ‘flash’ (USB stick).  Visiting a cyber café in Kenya is like frequenting a brothel without regular healthchecks: your stick always comes back diseased.  And with nowhere to download your files and reformat your ‘flash’, you just carry the virus around from machine to machine, infecting everyone.  The brothel analogy is no leap of imagination.


It’s a big problem where I work.  With no network or shared space for files, and no internet in the office since November last year, we can only work together on the same document if we use USB sticks.  Last year, my whole USB stick was infected 3 times, meaning that I lost my work over and over again, too scared was I to save work on the office PCs which regularly died peacefully in the night, refusing to switch on in the morning, or ever again.  We take advantage of free antivirus downloaded when we can scrounge a modem, but it's of limited strength, and useless without regular internet access to update the software to cope with new nasties.


Four viruses I have contracted recently:

1. porn.exe
2. sexy.exe
3. secret.mov
4. and one where every word document was wiped and replaced by: I’m a Somali worm!  I won’t stop destroying your documents until Somalia is free!!!!!!!!!!  which seems to be the most useless attempt at healing international wounds since Prince Philip last went to Asia.

So what to do?  After 4 months I gave in and bought a fancy phone which acts as mobile internet for my work PC, and I top up with internet credit from my own pocket every week.  I also regularly back-up on our home laptop (lucky me), and refuse to let any USB near my PC without a full scan/complete formatting.  My colleagues are now used to me saying:

Wait!  Stop!  Is that clean before you stick it in? (the brothel analogy runs and runs…). 

A fellow VSO volunteer on an IT placement answered my plea to audit the technology in our offices and make recommendation to our boss (thanks Tara!).  The results were: get a new internet provider, buy toner, buy antivirus, service your photocopier and for goodness sake contract an IT person to continue this work.  Office equipment was donated a few years ago to 'build' an office environment, but this first generation of NGO office workers are unfortunately learning the hard way that you can’t just receive a bunch of PCs, plug them in and expect them still to work a year later.  

I’m glad to report that improvements are happening slowly, and with a bit of funding trickling in, we now have a freelance IT guy who works here twice a week.  He’s young, skinny and he stands too close, but he’s created a network, procured antivirus and is teaching my colleagues what to ask when choosing internet providers.  He’s even fixed the printer halleluiah.  With limited resources, I understand that my boss has to choose carefully what to invest in, but it's been interesting to see that IT maintenance is not seen as an office essential here (even in an office where several visually impaired colleagues rely on screen reading, or magnifying software to do their work; surely it makes sense to maintain the technology that essentially gives them sight?)

As you can see, the technology in the office regularly fails me and my colleagues.  But are they angry? 

The answer is: No, not really, and here is where an issue of computer viruses puts a spotlight on how Kenyan work culture is different from where I’ve come from:

In the UK, people would be outraged if they were not given the tools to succeed in their work.  Frustrated, they would complain to the people in charge.  But in Kenya, I’ve not seen much evidence of disagreement, confrontation or performance management.  Problems are not fixed; and often not identified as a problem in the first place.  People just try and try again to make things work by themselves, to find their way around.  Pride is paramount, in leaders, their work, and themselves.  They don’t complain, they don’t give up, and they don’t blame others.  Just because it looks like offices do in the UK, doesn’t mean the rules are not totally different.  One of the reasons why my work was such a puzzle in the first few months was because no one wanted to speak badly of others, admit to problems or be honest about why projects are stalled.  It’s an admirable approach in lots of ways, but so rooted am I in a western work style, I can only see this approach as a barrier to realising the things we in the west hold most dear: productivity, progress, improvements and the ability to ‘get stuff done’. 

Here comes my personal lesson for the week...

Once again I’m challenged about what is the ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ way to do things; things done ‘well’ or ‘badly’ depend on who is judging, and which benchmarks they trust.  Often what I see as a ‘problem’, is…just…life here.  ‘Hakuna matata Helen!’ no worries, I’m told.  But I do worry, about how things will happen, about how things will be improved.  We were placed here as VSO volunteers to build capacity, to strengthen the work that happens – but build in which direction?  Strengthen which parts?  I never know if what I’m suggesting is much better or just wrong for this working world, and the only way to find out is by working in partnership.  I believe in all the VSO ideals here in bold, but often think I would need to be here 10 years before I was working together with my colleagues in a truly meaningful way.  But I only have 3 months left.  On the good days you make baby steps towards (what I might call) progress, but on the bad days I just miss working in an environment I fully understand.

(are you finding all this personal growth as tiring as me?!)

Down Town and Up Country

For one week earlier this month, we hosted my parents here in Kenya, spending a few days in Nairobi, before heading 'up country'.

First to the countryside near the town of Nanyuki, three hours north, where we hiked into the Mount Kenya national park, to see caves used by the Kikuku freedom fighters in their struggle for independence against the British.  The next day, we visited the equator for breakfast, and then headed further north to the central highlands, where the wilderness of Northern Kenya begins. 

We stayed for two nights at a lodge owned and operated by the local Maasai community, a three-hour drive from the nearest tarmac, through a beautiful landscape bursting with wildlife.  All the profits from the lodge support community development projects, including paying for school fees.  In every way it's a wonderful place to be.  I've told Dan if I ever go missing... I'm probably at Il Ngwesi Lodge.

 Il Ngwesi probably warrants a blog post of its very own, but for now...take it away Mum and Dad!


A guest blog written by Sue and Mike Trenchard (Helen's parents)


We visited Helen and Dan in Kenya at the beginning of March for a week to get some insight into their lives as VSO volunteers, and what daily life is like for them. And to have a nice holiday of course.


This blog entry is not a “this is what we did in Kenya” travelogue - we don’t want to bore our readers.  This is more our immediate snapshot memories of the sights, sounds - and sometimes smells - of Nairobi and its impressive surrounding countryside.


*  In Nairobi trying to look as if we knew what we were doing, in reality following Helen and doing as we were told.

*  Squashing into a Matatu and refusing to pay more than 20 bob, because that’s what Helen told us.

*  Crossing the 6-lane Mombasa highway on foot at Belle Vue to get to the other side. Think of the M25 and you get the idea.


*  Road building and road works do not mean closing the road. Cars, buses and trucks just find their own way through.


*  Enormous roadside hoardings advertising washing powder. No wonder so many Kenyans look beautifully turned out despite the ever present dust from the roads.


*  Getting on a bus at a stop named “Coal” because that’s what is piled up at the side of the road. And getting off at “Workshops” because that’s what happens there.


*  Early morning sounds - 5am - in the apartment block, echoing around the concrete walls.


*  Early morning smells - same time - people starting to cook on their outdoor landings.


*  Sunday morning church singing from all directions of the city, some of it more melodious than others.


*  Looking down from Helen and Dan’s apartment roof on one of the areas of “informal housing” (read: slum) sitting cheek by jowl with middle class back gardens.


*  Kenyans are very welcoming and some of them have very firm handshakes.


*  VSO volunteers in Kenya become almost tearful when given cheese and chocolate from home.


*  Stall after stall after stall selling mangoes along the highway out of Nairobi.


*  Eating breakfast - full English plus added exquisite tropical fruit - on a hotel terrace overlooking Nairobi National Park, by a beautiful lily pond at the Equator, and sitting by a river in the Il Ngwesi conservation area after an early morning bush walk.


*  Even baby elephants have enormous foot prints.


*  Sleeping in Prince William’s bed under the stars at Il Ngwesi Eco Lodge.


*  Watching elephants at the waterhole from the comfort of our luxurious outside toilet and shower.


*  Eating barbequed goat in the Maasai village by the light of the cooking fires.


*  In the space of a 3 hour bumpy drive seeing elephants, giraffes, buffalo, impala, waterbuck, rhinos, giraffe gazelles and lots of birds at close quarters.


*  The contrast in 24 hours from dinner in a Maasai Village to a European Restaurant in Nairobi with a band playing modern jazz.


If our daughter ever needs a different job we can recommend her as an efficient tour operator and guide.

The Kenyan English Dictionary

As time runs away with us and our return to the UK gets ever closer, it becomes clear to us that the way in which we talk in our mother tongue has changed in surreal and interesting ways. We begin to fear that you won’t understand us when we return to Britain.

A big factor in this is learning, and using, Kiswahili. Every Tuesday evening we meet Lucy, our Swahili teacher and friend in a café in Nairobi’s city centre. We are joined by Nick, Lucy’s husband and, we like to joke, our Kenyan 'cultural guide'.

Learning Swahili has become far more than just memorising verbs or learning our tenses. With Lucy and Nick, we delve into the culture that Swahili both represents and exemplifies, in between gossiping, munching on samosas and enjoying each others’ company. And we go beyond that, learning about the different tribal identities which, for good or bad, go to the heart of Kenyan identity. The personality traits associated with a Kikuyu. The somewhat disturbing death rituals in Luo communities. How badly the Bible was translated into local languages by Western missionaries. How all of this translates into Kenyan politics. We tackle it all, while simultaneously learning about Lucy and Nick’s lives and family, and comparing notes on the strange, peculiar ways of The Mzungu. 

Swahili lesson mid-flow - practicing using the story of "The Lion and The Mouse" (Simba na Panya)

The lovely Lucy and Nick

Swahili is a fabulous language, especially the way in which Lucy teaches it. I love its positivity, its straight-forwardness, the way in which politeness is assumed without much need for the complex polite/impolite divisions that seem to dominate other languages. The lack of ‘accents’ (things are pretty much said as they’re written). The way in which it so perfectly encapsulates Kenyan attitudes to time, responsibility, family and so on.

But learning Swahili also means we begin to really understand our Kenyan work colleagues, and the way in which they talk to us in English. Kenyan English is so fundamentally influenced by Swahili that it can be really baffling at first. But now that we have been here some time, it’s impossible not to be subsumed by this way of talking. It’s like picking up the accents around you. It’s a way of fitting in, of making yourself understood, a way of saying “we’re not tourists”. Or as our Kenyan friends would say: “You are practically Kenyan now”.

So to pre-empt our cultural re-integration into the UK, we thought we’d help our friends, family and colleagues with a brief dictionary to explain the many turns of phrase that we will inevitably continue to use all the time even when we get back. Hopefully this will help you all to understand what on earth we’re talking about….


Kenyan English phrases and their meanings

[With apologies to Lucy for the (many?) mistakes in my Swahili translations…]


“Hitting”, “crying”, “picking” and “flashing”
Believe it or not, these are all associated with the humble mobile phone. In Kenya, the verb to call someone (kupiga simu) literally means ‘hitting’ the phone. Phones don’t 'ring', they 'cry' like a baby. The phone is 'picked', not 'answered'. And 'flashing' someone is not a terrible act of public nudity, but rather someone calling you then hanging up as a way of giving you their number. 'Flashing' is a clever thing, especially when it’s random Kenyans trying to get the mzungu’s number – it means you can’t lie about your number because they’ll then proceed to 'flash' you immediately, and look crest-fallen when it doesn’t ring, and they realise you aren’t going to marry them / take them to your country.

“How are you?”
Obviously this is a standard phrase in Britain as well, but Kenya has a really lovely culture of greetings which I suspect we will find difficult to shake off. Greetings in Swahili can be extensive, with everything from “Habari yako?”, “Habari ya asubuhi?” and “Habari ya jamaa?” (How is your news / morning / family?) all asked of each other before a conversation really gets to ‘the point’. It’s the best way to approach every Kenyan, whether it’s our work colleague, the shop-keeper or someone we want to ask directions from. Kenyans find it quite rude if you just walk up and say “where’s this?” or “what’s that?”. I have images of Helen and I taking the Kenyan approach with the staff on the London underground and getting very suspicious, baffled looks in response.

“I am fine, just fine”
And the default response to all this ‘how are you-ing’ is “nzuri” – fine or good. I love that in Swahili it’s almost impossible to be negative. You’re always fine, always good, even when you’re really not. Again, though, this is a challenge for us westerners. We've had to learn not to say "I’m having a crap day" or "I’m feeling rubbish". Kenyans will never say that, even when they are having the worst day ever. One of Helen’s colleagues took this to the extreme when they gave the usual response one morning, only for Helen to find out hours later that they had been up all night with their mother in hospital after she was in an accident. But they were “fine, just fine”.

“I am just coming”
This goes to the heart of the Kenyan concept of time, which even Kenyans themselves will cheerfully admit is not a strong suit. Used frequently, especially when you are late for something (eg. a meeting). The precise meaning is often unclear – it can mean “I’m nearly there” or, far more likely, it means “I’ve only just started my journey, I may be several hours”. As an interesting aside, in Swahili there is no verb for 'to be early' – only a verb 'to be late' (Kuchelewa) – which says it all really. Being ‘on time’ for things – whether meetings, parties or dinner dates - is fairly unknown. There’s being ‘fashionably late’, and there’s being ‘Kenyan late’. We apologise in advance if this trait has rubbed off on us.

“Imagine!”
A crucial part of the joyful Kenyan skill of storytelling, this is all about expressing disbelief for the enjoyment of your audience. Be prepared to hear us say “Can you imagine, I could not believe it” or “Imagine, even me I was very much pleased by this”.

“Isn’t it?”
Directly translated from the Swahili “Si ndiyo?”, which is sprinkled with abandon throughout speeches, presentations and trainings, this is the equivalent of seeking agreement by saying “is that not so?” at the end of every sentence. Very much related to the “tuko pamoja” culture (see “we are together?” below), it’s used as a way of checking your audience is still with you, and that you’re all in agreement. Frequently rhetorical, it still works as a ‘call and response’ method, with your audience nodding sagely and responding “ndiyo” (“indeed, it is so”). Of course, whether this reflects agreement and/or understanding is often less clear…

“Just come”
Related to "I am just coming" above, but also different, this is a common response if you try to plan a visit eg. to a Kenyan friends’ home. It conveys the vagueness about time, of course, but also the warm, welcoming nature of Kenyans. It’s a way of saying "you are always welcome", or “karibuni sana”, as we are constantly told. It's a trait that has really rubbed off on us and our volunteer friends - we organise every social event with an open invite, encouraging everyone to come. I hope we keep that up back in the UK.

“Pole pole”
We’ve already used this so many times in this blog, do I even need to explain? It means “slowly slowly”, and is, fundamentally, the way things work here. And also the way to get things done. If you try to launch head-long into a new initiative at work, or you try to ‘hit the ground running’, your Kenyan colleagues will most likely gently chastise you with this phrase. Change happens slowly here, and unless you’ve spent time with people building relationships and gaining trust over cups of chai, it won’t happen at all. Something about tortoises and hares rings a bell… We can't work out if this will be a valuable asset back in UK offices, or whether we will get the shock of our lives as we realise the pace of life has quadrupled in speed and we scrabble desperately to keep up with you all.

“The nini”
Volunteers we know who have already returned to the UK have warned us that this phrase keeps plaguing them. Literally meaning “the what”, this is Kenya’s frequently used equivalent of “thingummy bob”. It just means you can’t find the word to describe what you want to say. Usually accompanied by pointing, recent “ninis” in conversations with Kenyans have included ‘Mount Kenya’, ‘flipchart’ and ‘modem’.

“Trainings” and “sensitisations”
I strongly suspect we will find ourselves in UK offices talking about “trainings”. They are always plural, even when they’re not. It has to do with there being several people in the room, which means our Kenyan colleagues will also walk into the room and say “hellos”. And then, of course, there’s the eponymous “sensitising”. Which is used whenever someone needs to be made aware of something. We all work to ‘sensitise’ people to the rights of persons with disabilities. At a recent conference, our disabled delegates agreed that the staff of the hotel where it was being held needed to be “sensitised” about accessibility, considering all the stairs, obstacles in corridors etc.

Thirsty work - mid-way through being "sensitised" about 'Mainstreaming'
at the recent VSO conference (not sure I am any wiser to be honest)

“We are together?”
Kenyan meetings are regularly punctuated by facilitators using the phrase “Tuko pamoja?” – “We are together?” – followed by a chorus of “Tuko pamojas” in response. For Kenyans, being ‘together’ on something is fundamental. It’s a culture that truly respects everyone’s opinion, and everyone must have their say. Consensus is the name of the game, not contradiction or confrontation. It’s a tradition that goes all the way back to tribal councils who decided collectively on the way forward. For westerners like us, this can be a challenge. Imagine a meeting in a UK office where direct disagreement is not done, you certainly don’t interrupt someone who is mid-way through making their point, and brevity is virtually unknown. Instead there are lengthy monologues which begin with “I have not so much a question, Mr Chairman, as a comment”; or major points of disagreement which are prefaced politely with “I agree entirely with the Chairman in his approach. I just have one minor suggestion…”. And much to the frustration of us wazungus, meetings will frequently finish with a vague, un-defined, no-clear-actions conclusion: “Tuta endelea pamoja” (“we will go forwards together”).

So, I asked, are we together? (Eddie just laughed)

I guess the only other one to watch out for will be our strange refusal to use 'informal contractions' in our speech. There will be none of this vulgar "you'll", "they're", "isn't", "wasn't" or "doesn't". This is mainly because English is the language of education in Kenya, and Kenyans appreciate the formality of the language, as opposed to their relaxed, speedy gossiping in Swahili, Sheng (Nairobi's ever-evolving youth slang), or one of the other 40-odd languages spoken by different regions and tribes. So be prepared for us to greet you with "It is very much nice to see you and we do really appreciate your presence".


So there it is. I suspect this ‘dictionary’ could go on and on, but I’m sure you’ll get the drift once we’re back. Who knows, maybe we'll persuade you all to start speaking like Kenyans - taking it slower, focusing on people before work, being more of a community - Sounds pretty cool, right?

And with that, I’ll conclude by saying:

Imagine, even me, I am very much happy about this thing of the nini (blogging). I will hit you when we return to the UK – we are just coming. Are we together?

Uniting the Blind

Posted by: Helen

In the last post about my work here in Nairobi, I introduced Kenya Union of the Blind (KUB) and explained that despite my lovely colleagues, I was itching to get out of the office, meet our members and see our work on the ground.  The story continues at 7.45am on a Sunday morning in February...

_________________


My phone is ringing. I stare at the phone wondering what day it is, and why an unknown number is calling me. I take a guess, and answer it. I've guessed right; it's my boss, Jackson, our CEO at Kenya Union of the Blind.

Helen? It is Jack. It is unfortunate that I didn't call you yesterday, but we are going to Embu. Today. You said you wanted to join a trip. Can you come?

And so it was that I found myself heading into the office before 9am on a Sunday, with 60-minutes notice.  Grumbling about poor communication and zero planning, and wondering where exactly Embu is, I sat on the matatu secretly pleased that after 8 months, I was finally joining a field trip. All I know so far is that we're visiting a branch, and distributing some materials about HIV/AIDS in Braille and Large Print but living in Kenya has prepared me to expect the following: delays, confusion, unexpected wonder, madness and a lack of regular mealtimes.  So, I’ve packed patience, tolerance, my camera, and a lunch.

 

KUB vehicle: ready for the off

I arrive at the KUB compound at 9.30 to find our logistics guy (and driver) Ken tinkering with the KUB vehicle.  He hands me an (unbearably sweet) tea and says we’re leaving in ten minutes.  And we do, to my shock.  We drive out along the Nairobi Eastern bypass.  Ken tells me here is where I should buy my land and build my house, close to the newly tarmacked road and opposite the airport land, This is where money can be made, he counsels.  I laugh and rebut the regular assumption that I will remain in Kenya, marry a Kenyan, and build a house; I’m having a great time.  It’s feels good to be leaving Nairobi in private transport, as the fields and houses rush past.


We are picking up our boss, Jackson, in his home town of Thika, a town on the rise thanks to its proximity to Nairobi, improved roads and large industrial areas.  We arrive at 10.30 and wait on a main road for a full hour, watching people walk by in their Sunday best.  I sneak a bit of my sandwich lunch. Jackson arrives, having mistaken our location when Ken called an hour ago.  They show me the compound of Thika School for the Blind as we leave town - Kenya’s leading school for the visually impaired, and the almer mata of many of my KUB colleagues.  We’re back on the Thika highway at 11.30am. 


The (New! Vastly Improved!) Thika Highway is a ‘Vision 2030 flagship project’ which means that it’s supposed to be a symbol of ‘Modern Kenya’.  I know it’s a little dull to bang on about roads, but it’s an ENORMOUS construction project spanning hundreds of miles, with eventually 4 lanes in either direction.  It’ll be the biggest road in East Africa, built to ease the epic jams.  They’re basically building the M1 so it means a lot to Kenyan business, and the economy.  And it is, inevitably, being built by a Chinese contractor (and yes I know my post on China in Africa is long overdue…).


Driving past paddy fields in a rice-growing district, past mango trees in fruit-basket county, we arrive in Embu at 1.30pm, and drive to the Naivas supermarket.  Jack and Ken pop in to get lunch while I sneak a bit more of my bread and cheese.  Then we sit in the car, on the side of the road outside the Naivas eating ground nuts, ‘cake’ (I wouldn’t call it that) and drinking ‘sodas’.  (Kenyan love fizzy drinks, I must have drunk more coke in Kenya than in the rest of my life combined.)


So where do we go now? I ask, To the branch, I’m told, and off we go.  The road is much worse here, and Ken has good fun careering across the road in search of tarmacked patches.  We’ve been driving for 30minutes outside Embu when I think, so our meeting is not IN Embu town then, huh?  I wonder where in Eastern Province I actually am?  Only now do I remember I have google maps on my fancy new phone and hit ‘My Location’.  We’ve driven past Embu and headed south.

 

We arrive 10 minutes later in the small town of Kiritiri, and pull up to the Baptist Church. About 30 local people have assembled in the two-roomed schoolhouse on the same compound. It’s 2.40pm, and they are ready and waiting.  I wonder when they were asked to gather.  Have they been waiting many hours?  When were we expected?  I suspect the Kenyan rules of ‘just come’ and ‘we will be there in some few hours’ have prevailed.  It’s vague and quite maddening compared to life back home, but it’s just the way it is here.

Here's the schoolhouse

We enter the tiny school room by ducking our heads and peering into the gloom.  Everyone is crammed onto little wooden benches in a room the size of my lounge, men, women and children. Hamjambo I say in greeting and many smile, some look up.  There are blind couples, partially sighted people, mothers of blind babies, blind teenagers and their families.  There are young children who guide older blind relatives.  There are ‘associate members’ who have physical disabilities and get around by leaning on a stick taller than they are.  But mostly the people are tiny, elderly and quiet.  I’ve rarely been around people who have quite so little. 


I meet the branch leader, Theresa, and am told we are here to open the new Mbera branch, a dream come true for these local people.  This friendly, smiling blind lady holds her white cane, and tells me that she has more than many.  Her job in Nairobi as a government telephone exchange operator provides a small pension in her retirement and she has bought land close by.  Her education gives her spoken English, confidence, manners and enough extra money to buy her white cane, the visible signal of her blindness. Most people here have none of those things.

Theresa and I

Jackson calls things to order and I squeeze onto the bench next to Theresa.  As expected, the meeting is mainly in Swahili, with shouting and singing, and all led by Jackson.  As usual, there are many introductions, and everyone loves to hear me say hello in Swahili. If visually impaired, people explain how and when they lost their sight.  The common mix of Swahili and English is called Sheng in Kenya, and I hear loud and clear: Nimeblind and Nimepartially blind (I have become blind, I have become partially blind).


The meeting moves into open discussion, and it soon becomes clear that most people are excited about the launch of this new branch in Mbera because they hope for big changes in their lives.  They ask for plots of land, for government benefits, for school fees and for Kenya to be ‘sensitised’ (be made aware) about the plight of the blind.  I know, and Jack knows, that in reality the KUB can do very little, but he promised to take their concerns to the board.  Without development professionals, a structure for winning and caring for big donors, and a well managed advocacy strategy, the KUB cannot hope to meet these expectations and in one year, with limited engagement, there’s only a pitiful amount I can do in my placement.


Now comes the distribution of HIV materials.  The KUB is a very handy organization for donors wishing to reach people that mainstream awareness campaign cannot touch.  Uniquely, we can reach a very marginalized group: the rural blind, and at the moment our major funders are interested in funding work to educate our members on HIV/AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria.  With diseases like these, it’s in everyone’s benefit that the entire community know how to reduce their risk, what behaviors cause infection, how to get tested and how to care at home for someone who becomes very ill, so large print and Braille information are handed out on these subjects.  I’m not sure how many of the blind people here have ever learnt to read Braille, but they are delighted with this heavy gift.  Jackson accompanies the distribution with a short speech on HIV/AIDS awareness, Tunashida! he says (we have a problem) Tunashida, people reply, shaking their heads slowly and sadly.  He then announces that although sex is a gift from god, we must all use condoms.  And that was about it.
 

Everything you need to know about HIV and TB - in Braille.

As a bonus, The Bible Society of Kenya had given KUB some Braille Bibles to hand out, but due to the thick, bulky nature of Braille, this bestseller can only be bound book-by-book.  Realising we only had a glut of Mark and Romans, Jackson laughs nervously, We will spread the good news one book at a time!


The last part of the meeting is The Ken Show, and our Logistics Officer takes great delight in conducting the elections for the officials of this new branch.  He reminds everyone that in our Union you MUST be partially or totally blind to hold office.  To my great surprise, it seems that some people at the meeting genuinely aren’t sure if they are, and what they are, so Ken gives them a large print book and asks them to read out loud before ‘diagnosing’ based on their attempt.  I’m not sure if holding the book upside down means you’re blind or just illiterate but everyone seemed happy with this screening test.  Visually impaired Kenyans face real cynicism that blindness exists at all, because as an ‘invisible disability’ people could just pretend, in order to gather help, money, pity.


The process of nominating, seconding, voting, counting and declaring takes 90 minutes as Ken keeps the energy up through the elections of: Chairperson (Theresa, natch), Vice chairperson, Secretary, Vice Secretary, Treasurer, Vice Treasurer, Organising Secretary, Women’s Committee Leader and Youth Committee Leader. Phew.  I am now very hot, very thirsty, increasingly bored and with a totally numb backside after 2 and a half hours on this thin wooden bench.  Also I can’t imagine that the people squeezed into this room have regular opportunities to wash with clean water and soap, or so it seemed to me.

The Ken Show

As I watched hands rise into the air to vote again and again, I wondered what we could actually do for these new members forming a KUB branch.  I wanted to visit a branch to see the real people our organization exists to help, but now I’m here, I struggle to see how exactly we can help these members, and those in the other 40 branches who need so much.  Their challenges are just enormous.  And then it hit me.  These people are united.  On the wall in my office proudly hangs the KUB’s Vision, Mission and Values.  I’ve often parroted the phrase, ‘we exist to unite and empower our members’ without really seeing the power behind that unity.  These people have been brought together by the KUB and are united by their shared challenges.  Those with visual impairment in Kenya are ignored, abused, and seen to be cursed.  They are poor, uneducated, invisible.  But here in this smelly room there is hope, joy, laughter, friendship, access to information and an organization that unites them.  I now see how valuable that is; the KUB unites the blind, and that ain’t nothing.

I look across the room to the young mother with a baby, the doctors say he is blind. She’s definitely younger than me, and I wonder what happened when the child was diagnosed.  The vast majority of women you meet with disabled children are single mothers.  Disability is a curse and it’s the women who are blamed, what have YOU given birth to?  The women Dan and I meet through our work are those not willing to abandon or lock up their child, but want to seek help. Often the men disagree so they leave.  I doubt this woman knew anything about blindness until recently, but here she is making new friends and learning that he can grow up to be a strong and educated man.  She and I can hope for that, because KUB exists, it’s leaders are blind and it talk about blindness proudly, disability in not inability, nothing about us without us.  Leaders, members, united.  Kenya’s national motto is the same as its first president’s social policy: Harambee, Pull Together.  And with massive social challenges and an enormous lack of resources in Kenya, maybe pulling together is all that’s left.

Well that, and per diems.  Once again everyone queued up excitedly at the prospect of travel expenses / free money.  How many attendees just came for the money at the end?  Do they really believe in Unity or is that my ideal? 


After three long hours of sitting still, everyone started to leave and the level of energy rose dramatically.  There was a lot of excitement, unity, smiles.  People wanted to meet me, shook my hand and asked me questions.  They talked about their hopes for this new beginning, this new branch.  I like to think it wasn’t just because they all had money in their pockets.  But would it be bad if that were the case?

Happy members

 

Theresa was interviewed by the local radio, who covered the launch.

At close to 6pm, Ken, Jack and I pulled out of the church compound and headed back to Embu.  They wanted me to sit in the passenger seat, so that I could see the nini (the what) out of the windscreen.  The nini turned out to be the long, slow, sillouetted rise of Mount Kenya in all her glory with no clouds to cover her peak, Bastian: the highest point in Kenya.  There was also a kick-ass sunset.  By the time we’d left Embu it was properly dark, and the only clues we were back in mango country in mango season were the handful of fruit stalls still open on the side of the road.  Shall we?  says Jack, and Ken pulls in to a stall where the lady served us through the van window. Trying before buying, I slurped into the best mango of my life in the light thrown from our headlights.  Tasty mango juice ran through my fingers and onto the ground as I leant joyfully out of the window. Having inexplicably treated us both to our body weight in mango and watermelon, Jack announced the shopping stop over and we headed south down the Thika Highway.

Mt Kenya, to the right, do you see her?

Three hours later Ken has dropped me at our flat and I’m struggling up 5 flights of stairs in the dark with a watermelon and 10 mangos.  I almost fall through the door.  It’s 10pm.  How was it?? Asks Dan, handing me some dinner, but I’m too tired to tell the story. I’ll blog about it, I promise, but today I learnt about unity.