Final Chapter: Kenya

Before I write the last blog of my grand adventure I wanted to share with you the joys of my last weeks in Kenya. I am currently sitting on a very full plane, darting through the skies somewhere over northern Australia. In 3 hours I land in Melbourne, where after 14 months I’ll set foot on Australian soil and return to ‘real’ life.

I’ve been waiting for it to hit me. For the penny to drop. I left the project on Friday morning, farewell hugs to all the volunteers, final high fives to the village kids. And no tears. Not a drop. And as I spent the day in Mombasa running errands with Zeno and Lucy, GVI staff, it still hadn’t hit. One domestic and two international flights later and still... nothing.

Until suddenly in a flash, I felt the warm flood of tears. This is it. I’m going home. Home, such a foreign concept for me. No more new cultures, no more little kids to tickle, no more new languages to stumble over. No more new volunteers, no more new projects. Just home, work, and study. “Real” life.

I cried for the experiences I’ve had, I cried for fear, I cried for the loss I felt leaving Kenya, of leaving Africa. My last weeks in Kenya were some of the happiest.

Last I wrote I was living on Wasini island with generator electricity and sea water showers, where we were building water tank stands. Hot under the Kenyan sun, heads covered to adhere to the local Muslim culture. The construction project was a huge success. We fixed the tap at the orphanage (well Andy fixed the tap). We build three stands and put in place three 1000 litre water tanks to harvest rainwater for the local school. 

It only took 250 litres water, 40 buckets of sand, five 50kg bags of cement (which I made a particular point of carrying, raising eyebrows of men, both local and foreign), 25 coral bricks, countless hours smashing rocks and mixing cement. And a dash of blood, blisters and sweat.

I have come to love manual labour and the satisfying feeling of being so present. The feel shovel as you heave cement into a bucket. The weight of the sand on your shoulders as you carry it from the beach. The burn as lactic acid pools in your muscles as you carry yet another 20 litres of water from the sea. But the real highlight of the construction project was not actually building, but the kids that came to watch us build.

The little preschoolers in their little green checkered uniforms would swamp Tegan and I. Climbing us like monkeys in a tree. Singing our names, reaching for a hand, to be picked up or a high five. I’ll never forget standing in the baking sun with one kid sitting on my left foot, wrapped around me like a boot. Another kid on my right foot and a kid on each hip, all smiles and laughter.

The construction project is more than just mixing cement, not only are you building water stands, but you are building a bond with the community- with the kids. And I can say that this kind of construction is more important, for these kids, for their community, for us- the volunteer. It gave me a strong sense of purpose, brought a smile to my lips and reminded me again of the simple pleasure kids find in everything.

And so concluded my time on the island. A two week flash of cement, smiles and sunshine. My final week we live on the mainland in Shimoni, a wonderful village where as you walk children will appear from nowhere shouting “Jambo!” (Hi!) waving enthusiastically. Once you get your bearings, its a magical place of familiar faces and constant high fives.

These last few weeks teachers across Kenya have gone on strike. Its been nearly 4 years since the last election when the would-be government at the time made empty promises of rises and better working conditions. And as election time approaches the teachers collectively put their foot down. This means only the private schools are running.

Now, when I say private school, you think of a fancy almost Hogwarts-esque school, with pretty green grounds, peppered with privileged kids with nice matching uniforms. Now add a Kenyan village twist. Base Academy, a private school in Shimoni, where I did all my volunteer teaching this last week, is tidy. A coral brick building with 8 classrooms, 5m by 5m, roofed by corrugated iron. The children wear uniforms and wide smiles. The windows have no glass and the blackboard is a black-painted rendered wall that eats chalk.

And the children are amazing. I had the pleasure of teaching standard 5 (9-10 year olds) maths. We made multiplication flash cards, practicing our times table and learning to take pride in our work. In a 2 hour 20 minute lesson (please note, they had an hour of maths before this class and another hour after! AND maths is not my forte) these 6 kids sat on their wooden school desks, attentive, eager to learn and play. I also made flashcards with standard 4 (8-9 year olds) as we started to learn our times tables. This class was particularly interesting, as I had to juggle the range of ability and engage a mentally disabled boy.

Before I left Australia I used to work in disability services, often taking kids on weekend camps. Kids with physical or mental (or both) disabilities. And I found it so interesting to see how he was managed by the other kids in this class. They really looked after him, trying in earnest to explain to me that he wasn’t like the rest of them, but always offering him something to do to save the class from being wholly distracted by him.

Between teaching, Lisanne, a lovely, tall, calm Dutch community field staff, Tegan and I would go sit in the village on some old truck tires by the mosque with a pile of books and read to any and every kid in the area. You’d have half a dozen kids climbing on you, clambering for a new book, pointing to the pictures. I found reading didn’t engage the kids as much as just pointing to the pictures and teaching new word and counting things on the page. And in the afternoons I taught computer classes to Swaleh, a sweet natured guy who works at the local dispensary. Each afternoon we’d spend an hour learning new Microsoft Word skills, like how and when to use bullet points, typing out examples, and it never ceased to amaze me how determined he was, and patient. These are tasks that are second nature to me, and yet, this man, my elder, is sitting there under my instruction eagerly looking down at the keyboard for the next letter.

And so that was my final chapter in Kenya. I already, only a day after leaving, have a deep seeded eagerness to return.

But in two hours the next chapter of my life begins.

I’m not ready to say farewell to this blog just yet, I have to process this all a little more. I’m too sad and sleep deprived right now. But in the same tear I cry because of the sense of loss I feel as this all comes to a close, the same tear is shared with a great sense of purpose, gratitude and excitement for what the future will hold.

So, farewell Kenya. Farewell Africa. Farewell World (for now). Hello Austalia. Hello Home (for now).

Final Chapter: Kenya