I just took one of the best showers of my adult life. (The other being that which took place at the Jinja Nile Resort in Uganda.) Hot water? Water that I can drink and brush my teeth with? A toilet? That works!? All of this in a little place called Britanny House, Kitale



I swear to God, the shower was big enough to waltz in. Which I did. Alone. (Wow, maybe I shouldn’t have shared that.)
Anyway, it couldn’t come at a better time.

Yesterday was fun. I got in a car accident. Why do these things follow me around? Like it’s just a friendly reminder from the almighty that I’m suppose to stay out of and away from motor vehicles. It was possibly the most stressful day in the slum so far. I know, you’re probably thinking, “Well, yeah, it’s a slum.” But everyone we met in Kibera was nothing but generous, warm, welcoming, engaging, patient, and of course, curious. Once they knew our intentions, and the work it took to get here they were more than supportive.

At church I even drew applause from a youth group. That was unexpected.
But yeah, it was our last day. Crammed for time, surrounded by at least 7 kids at a time, all talking at once, and racing the sun. It was rather trying, lets say.
I feel like I’m rambling. Let me break it down.
This is a matatu:







You have to be a friggin’ acrobat to get into one (especially with a tripod, boom pole, and camera gear pack), and you have to be a fucking maniac to drive one.
So…
Kibera: Matatu to City Center Nairobi: not bad, traffic jam, yes, but at least we didn’t run out of gas. Again.
City Center: Taxi. Haggled from 1200KSH to 800KSH to 850KSH. (Don’t ask. I was desperate.)
Taxi gets blind-sided by a matatu and struck from behind by another matatu. My neck hits the head rest and the taxi driver tells us to wait for another car to come and pick us up.
Yeah. Sure.
So another matatu pulls up next to us. Its headed for Donholm, where we are staying. Its 8pm and we are still in the middle of the street, dirty, sweaty, and smelling like human fecal matter. (Oh yeah, I slipped in Kibera. My left foot submerged in their sewage.) PS: im not complaining or disparaging. "It's just the way it is," as I've learned.
The new matatu has no lock on the sliding door. Its held together by a black rubber band. So, naturally, I feel confident and secure.
New matatu not only rides the sidewalk and almost runs over tens of people, but also, defying all reason, goes against traffic in a roundabout.
By the time we arrive, I feel like Nairobi is kicking my ass out.
… and into a palace called Brittany’s House in Kitale, where we are now. Showering like kings.

The mosquito nets are literally galloping over the full size bed! I have a fuckin MINT on my pillow. And its huge! (OK, fine, its a bar of soap.) A balcony, garden, and rooms themed to different Kenyan tribes. (We’re Kisii’s!) Not to mention 7 adorable kids from age 3 to 14 to play soccer with, pick and eat fruits from the trees, and watch bootleg DVDs with.

What’s alarming, is that just down the road is a camp for internally displaced Kenyans (an IDP camp.) We are going there tomorrow with Sister Freda, an amazing woman who runs the local hospital, cares for 7 abandoned, orphaned, and disabled children, and feeds over 100 kids a day with maize and beans from her own fields. She also grows and sells coffee on the side, is starting a nursing program, and accepts international volunteers. And tomorrow, we are going with her to pick up drugs to take to the IDP camp for distribution and informal counseling. She struggles to get by herself for the benefit of others. Amazing woman. I want to hug her everytime I see her or hear her voice. Too soon for that though.

She's just another person I know I will be blessed to know; another experience I can already feel rushing through me. The human quality of selflessness, strength, and generosity I’ve witnessed here brings me to tears. And yet so many people are afraid to come here. War, poverty, AIDS, famine. How did a continent with so much to give become so narrowly defined?
Next time you read something in the news about Africa, remember that there will always be people out there inspiring a chance for peace for all of us.

The deep azure of her eyes clung like a halo to her pupil. Her eyes pointed up toward the sky as she spoke each word. “You are welcome. You see, just as the doors were open when you arrived today, they will be open for you always.”

Sister Freda welcomed us for tea this morning. I had heard such great things about her, but nothing to explain the grip she has on those that have come to know her. “You have to meet Sister Freda when you are going to Kitale!” “Cool, why?” I’d ask. “You’ll know. Just meet her.”

When we arrived at her round breakfast table she and her British expat husband, Richard, were hosting two visitors, a man and wife. Graciela has been to Sister Freda’s six times! She has brought her 71-yr-old husband, Ron, with her for the first time. Graciela grew up in Guadalajara, Mexico. She looks at her life as a mission of God. When she shared that she lost her father at age 10, I reached my hand across the table to hers, clasping hers and gave her a knowing nod of the head. She smiled at me as she continued talking. When she lost her father, she and her siblings had to fend for themselves. Scratching at the table she said, “I would dig. Through the trash to find something to keep the hunger away. I was a happy girl. I would play and play and then go find a piece of bread or an orange that had been squeezed, eat that and play some more.”
She, her mother, and her siblings eventually crossed the US border on foot, wading through the cold river water up to their chests. “Now go to school!” her mother told her when they arrived. She did and after treating her husbands widow as a physical therapist, she finds herself with us at Sister Freda’s in Kitale. Giving Sister Freda a massage every night to relieve some of the tensions of her everyday.

At the end of her story, Sister Freda, rises from her chair and rests her elbow on her chair. She closes her eyes and lays her hands palm to palm. “There is so much need,” she said. “So we welcome you and we will help you in your mission to stop the fear so many people feel about Africa, to come and see how beautiful our country is.”
She opens her eyes, we all take in a deep breath, and I wipe the tears from my eyes. She returns with a beaded necklace. A single strand with the colors of the Kenyan flag – green, red, black, and white. “These are made by a womens’ group in Kipsongo, a slum here in Kitale. You will meet them.” I thank her and lay my fingertips over the beads like its gold. “Thank you so much, Sister Freda.” Less than an hour of knowing her, I’ve been welcomed, gifted, and cried. This woman is amazing.

After meeting up with Michele and Caroline, both from Seattle, and friends who I volunteered with last year, we picked up some other volunteers from Ukraine and Uzbekistan and we head to a camp for Internally displaced persons affected by the post-election violence. They have no home and land to return to. Kenyan military is on guard at the gates. I ask them what they do there. “We can do nothing but provide security.” When I asked if we could take video, I was told to only take pictures of the “decent” tents at the camp, not the ones fashioned out of potato sack and sticks. “You see, it is an embarrassment,” he says. "For the government."

After getting a few shots of the camp I realized I was fulfilling one of my life goals – to visit a refugee camp. My purpose was much different than I had imagined it, but the goal is fulfilled nevertheless. We interview Sister Freda, and as we carry on, we encounter a man limping toward us with a makeshift cane. “This man is very eager to speak with you," she tells me.
Sister Freda helps translate his story. When the “skirmishes” were going on, and explosives were running him off his land, he says his blood pressure went up and he had a stroke. His entire left side is useless, he said. “Even my eye,” he said as he indicated the puss and tears forming. “I’m worrying that I am too old. I am 40-years-old with 6 children. Who is going to toil the land for them? I am worrying I wont be able to provide them with an education.” I asked Sister Freda to ask him what it is that keeps him going, where he gets his hope. “From the higher power,” she says.

When we walk away I thank Sister Freda and she says, “Thank you, I believe you were meant to be here to share these stories.” She calls on a divine power that I’m still having trouble wrapping my mind around, but my heart feels like its been inflated by this woman, the people she’s touched, and the places she has taken me.

We carry on to the man’s tent to meet his family when Graciela approaches him and takes his crippled left hand. She sits him down after I had walked him, step by step holding his waist across the camp of 600 people. “When did he become paralyzed?” she asked. “January”. Her eyes widen as she stretches his fingers in her palm.


“He can be healed. With some exercises, he can regain the use of his hand.” She hurriedly takes out some creams from her bag, massages his arms and whispers, “In Jesus name I pray, in Jesus name I pray.” She gave him some exercises and I asked her, “Why don’t you show his wife how to do it?”

As we walked away, Graciela says to me, “Sometimes you don’t know what you are here for today, and then God shows you.”

After the IDP camp, we head the Sister Freda’s hospital, a wonderful, although incomplete, medical care center, all provided by the kind donations of individuals, churches, and business men and women. It is run by Sister Freda and her small staff of five.
Walking with Graciela, she gives us a tour and we arrive at the room of Boaz, a 17-year-old boy with cerebral palsy. He lights up! She tells me that she has only been working with his about 2 weeks, but she has already got him on his feet. “He wants to so bad, but no one knew he could!” Instead of being stuck behind the camera, I immediately got down on the floor when he was seated, surrounded by pillows and hunched over. His eyes pointed up as he drew out a big smile. Instinctively, Graciela and I drew him on his feet, each of us taking a side. Someone took a balloon and set it in front of him. He was kicking, and communicating, grunting, and laughing, and his feet would not stop moving! “Mzuri sana, Boaz!” I said, cheering him on as we drew him down the dimly lit corridor, chasing the balloon in our own makeshift game of soccer. He didn’t want to stop. Two weeks ago, he was a shell. Left at home to suffer in silence. Now he’s got hope, he’s got strength; he’s got his legs! That smile, that laugh. It’s the strength of the human spirit. It’s something I have found nowhere else. The sense of empowerment and the knowledge that some people out there are still willing to fight when hope seems lost.

There is so much more to share, but you have to see it for yourself, you have to feel it. And I’ve realized, when it is your time, you will.

If I don't feel well, if my mind is racing and my heart out of synch - there's a reason.

Finding a balance in Kenya is not easy. Finding the truth about Kenya is harder, because there is not one truth. You cannot sum it up into a "dream" as we tend to in the States. Because what happens here is no dream. It is a battle. A daily struggle which I cannot even fathom to completely understand.

What I do understand is my role and what my heart is telling me. When I arrived I thought that this was my mission, if you will. Perhaps it is, but I know now what I was too naive to know on my first trip to Kenya. Kenya is not all warm welcomes and pure hearts. It is also rife with hate, with anger, with abandonment, and pain. While children do often smile and play, they are fighting through their pain. Living in a slum when sometimes your only comfort is the mud in which you sleep, you have to laugh, and smile and play.

Many adults don't have this luxury in Kenya. We may say that we are aware that we cant count on the next day coming, or that we are living "hand to mouth", but rarely do we feel the pain of slowing dying or know the uncertainty of life.

Today I found myself in Kipsongo - the shantiest slum I could have never imagined - turning away from that pain. Homes made of plastic bags on a stick skeleton, mud and trash filling the path to a pit latrine beside the other garden they have. People through from their land and discriminated against with nowhere else to go. And one man, who I later learned lie dead of pneumonia in his plastic bag structure.

Last year, I realized I had two motivations for coming to Kenya: I felt I had a lot of love left to give, and I wanted to know what pain people felt in this part of the world. I wanted to know what it meant to fight for your life. Now, I've come closer to having an understanding of that struggle. More so, I have an understanding of the struggles that good-hearted people go through to try and aide that battle. People like Sister Freda, the Hope for Kibera youth group in Nairobi, Emmanuel Leina, and countless others who want nothing more than to lift up their people, and find peace once more.

But the question still lingers: What is peace? The answer so far is having the basic resources that make life sustainable: food, shelter, clothing, and land. Since I have all these resources, all I want is to love and to be able to share that with those I hold dear. I don't want to pity, I don't want to feel discouraged, and above all I don't want to feel pain - inheritted or otherwise. My motivations were in the wrong place. Instead of sharing their pain, so far removed from my experience, I should use what I have to break that cycle, if only for one moment.

We all fight our own fights. Why should I add to the mire when life is still so uncertain? Better to smile, laugh, and play than create pain for myself that isn't there. Better to use my strength, like those Kenyan children use theirs, to bring something new to the fight - hope.