Giant African insects, living on fish scraps, meeting Hallelujah and the joys of a new latrine (Homa Bay)

I awoke once again to the dogs barking maniacally, killer bees, monkeys screaming like they were being attacked by killer bees, a bird that sounded like it was saying “Cocoa for Cocoapuffs”, and Jim cursing the dog that peed on his tent.  Ali came back from the bathroom warning of a giant black bug, and I thought okay, I haven’t yet seen any of the legendary African insect life, bring it on. I entered the bathroom, looked around cautiously, and began putting in my contact lenses.  I had one in my eye and the other on my finger tip when all of a sudden the ground shook from the thud as said bug crashed to the floor.  It was a giant black hornet. AYAYAYAY I ran out of the bathroom and started swaying back and forth.  Alarmed, Patrick came over and I indicated the source of my agitation. He gave me one of those African eyebrow raises, grabbed a stick and proceeded to challenge this fist-sized UFO as my lens slowly desiccated on my finger.  My hero took care of the intruder with grace, and we left Kisumu.

Driving in Kenya was usually quite riveting.  Sure, there were colossal bumps in the road that for the most part our superb driver, Sambau, avoided with great skill, but the dust and roughness were compensated by the diverse countryside, many peoples and imaginative use of English. Every school had a motto, such as Scaling New Heights, In God We Trust Knowledge is Power, Labour to

Why Kenyans are such good runners?

Success – I was continually inspired, as I was charmed by business names like “Dirtfoe Laundry.” But even more unique was the way unusual industries were combined. My favourite was the sporting goods and laboratory equipment shop, explaining why Kenyans are such fast runners, hmmm.

The road to Homa Bay was arduous and included a visit to a Japanese dam project. I didn’t know why. As we continued our travels it became clear that as fascinated as we were by the animals and peoples of Kenya, it didn’t compare to the level of interest we generated driving through rural Western Kenya. Not a single child, woman or man failed to stare as we drove past.  Happily they were responsive to our waves and for the most part broke into enthusiastic, sunshiney smiles.

Once we settled into the Hotel Hippo Buck in Homa Bay (after lunching at the Red Rose restaurant where I had to walk gingerly past an angrily boiling pot of french fries, highly stressful for a klutz like me), we went to Lake Victoria to visit the fishing village. This is when we closed the door to Kansas and entered Kenya, and started to learn how unfair and wondrous the world is.

We wandered into a co-operative fish processing open-air “plant”, overseen by the Shauriyako Fishmongers Self-Help Organization. At first it looked like the community’s bountiful catch was being smoked communally, but then we really

Harvesting fish garbage

Would you eat this?

saw the fish.  They were ostensibly skeletons, with remnants of flesh hopefully clinging by the roots – waste by-product of the fish factory next door. Rather than give away this aqua crap, the fish plant next door sells it to the fishmongers and has doubled the price within the last year. Membership in the Organization provides a collective voice for the smoked fish skeleton sellers, as well as orphan support.  Currently there are 51 children, mostly orphaned by AIDS, age two to eighteen. Needless to say we took up a collection; it wasn’t much, at least not by our standards, but you do what you can, and they weren’t expecting it.  We were only starting to learn that around every corner in Kenya there’s a worthwhile cause.

Orphans

En route to our homestay we visited the Magina (does not rhyme with a body part) Village Primary School, the very school attended by Oti, the dazzling

Dazzling Oti

young Luo owner of the local tour group used by our Canadian company.  Imagine — 500 children from nursery to grade eight and 13 teachers housed in semi-permanent structures made of mud and tin with no library, no electricity, and one pit latrine. The nursery class, for example, holds 70 children and three teachers in a cramped, hot room.  Now imagine ten seats lined up in a row, like thrones under a tree, filled with wide-eyed mzungu, and hundreds of children emptying out of their classes to greet us – wow. Then the children began to perform for us. First came the girls who sang a song complete with “leeleeleelee” sound effects and gentle Luo dancing. Then came the boys.  A young thespian came charging out of the group and quite menacingly pointed his spear directly at me, making threatening Luo noises. I threw up my hands and cowered in fear, much to the audible delight of 500 children.  Afterwards we presented our gifts to the school.  Jim and Merilee’s soccer ball was very well received!  Even better received was the instant gratification of digital photography — something no one in this part of Kenya had evidently seen.  As we toured the school, I noticed Ali was missing. Looking behind me I saw a swarm of children encircling a spec of red hair in a green hat — like a candle in a chocolate cake. Occasionally she’d come up for air before being swallowed again.  When it was time to leave I threw her a life preserver and towed her in.

Gifts for the Magina Village School

Welcome performance

Inside the classroom

Magina school

After the school visit we went to what would be our home for the next two days: the household compound of Oti’s father, “Big Daddy”, where our immersion into Luo life began. We would be hosted by Oti’s mother, a teacher at the school and Big Daddy’s first wife, and Janet, the second wife, the Small Wife. To the

Big Daddy

right of Big Wife’s house was the kitchen quarters; it was a bloody inferno in there. The blackened tin ceiling spoke to that. Beyond that was something of which they were very proud: the brand new latrines they had built for us just before arriving.  We were thrilled!

New latrine!

While getting settled we were served a delicious chinese noodle-type snack made from oranges and sweet potato, as well as the best ground nuts (peanuts) I’ve ever had. We were visited by the curious neighbour, an older women whose only word of English was “Hallelujah.”  When Hallelujah came to greet me I

Hallelujah

said “Shikamoo“, which is the respectful greeting in Swahili for an elder.  She was thrilled, regarding me like a long-lost friend, grabbing my hands and excitedly bleating on and on in Luo and looking at me for responses.  Deciding actions would be more effective, I took out my camera and took a picture of her, and what excitement when I showed her! I then had her take one of me, and then I one of us together.  My new BFF, Hallelujah.

Zacheus, another neighbour, took us on the tour of the village, showing us how the less affluent Luo lived. The typical dwelling was a one-room hut with a divider in the middle – living room/kitchen/dining room/storage/chicken coop on the right, and bedroom/stove on the left.  The latter was very, very dark, and usually crowded with the family’s meagre belongings. Zacheus took us to his own home, and with his beautiful smile and gentle manner, proudly introduced us to his young wife and eight-month old daughter. As they emerged from the dark we could hear a wheezing, laboured sound.  As Zacheus reached for his daughter from his wife’s arms, he said simply with a soft voice, “This is my daughter. She is sick.”  And then we saw her.  The child’s head was swollen like an overripe cantaloupe, her tiny features pinched together in an unnatural excess of skin. I saw a father, desperately in love with his only child, a child who, if born in Ontario, would not be in this situation, a child who would have been operated on and covered by OHIP, but not in Africa, because here fathers have children who get sick and die, because that’s life in Africa. I had to quickly excuse myself from the home.