Glimpses.

Many women of the village are employed in some facet of the omena cycle. This women is throwing fresh omena on the nets to dry. Once finished, the womens' legs and forearms are covered in flecks of silver.



This fisherman is carrying paraffin lanterns used to catch the omena. A boat will spread up to six lanterns along the water's surface, kept afloat by wooden platforms. The light attracts the fish and then the boats encircle the omena with nets.



At around dusk the fishermen start arriving at the beach for the night's work. The long stick in the foreground is used to move the paraffin lanterns.



Kageno runs a tailoring program that acts as a business and vocational training. Salome heads both initiatives and can make anything, ANYTHING, on her manual sewing machine.



Water hyacinth have invaded the local beaches and have done serious damage to the native aquatic life. The destructive hyacinth does, however, bring some economic opportunity. About 12 people have found employment through harvesting the plant, binding it into rope, and then using that rope to make mats, rugs, and bags.


At least once a week, the mere sight of me will send a child into hysteria. Not a good kind of hysteria but the kind that you would expect if a child saw a huge, oozing monster lumbering towards them. They haven't encountered too many white people and are somewhat uncertain. While this little girl wasn't crying because of me, her bottom lip quivered a bit quicker as I approached and she toyed with the idea of running in the opposite direction. Once older, the fear turns to curiosity and if I stand long enough in one place I will feel tiny hands rubbing my bare calves - they are infatuated with leg hair. One little boy reached out and touched my shin only to grimace and recoil as if he had touched a burning coal.


Children here are thrown into independence. They'll walk to school alone at age 5. They also have a great deal of responsibility, like caring for their younger siblings. Child-headed households, where the oldest assumes the parental role, are common.


One of the local birds known as a weaver because of its intricate spherical nests.

Whoops.

I've approached learning Luo with a bit of reckless abandon. Even if I don't know exactly what to say I'll try to use whatever vocab I have to carry on some kind of exchange. There have been quite a few humorous mistakes but these three are the best so far.

I wanted to say, "Adwaro nyoyo," which means, "I want maize and beans."

What I actually said was, "Adwaro yoyo," which means, "I want to suckle."

I wanted to say, "Tedo alayo," which means, "Cook green grams."

What I actually said was, "Tedo alayo," with incorrect inflection, which means, "Cook I urinate."

I wanted to ask, "Ichiew nadhi?" which means, "How are you waking?"

What I actually asked was, "Ichew nadhi," which means, "How are you fat?"

This last slip has happened a number of times but everyone has been gracious, either because they were confused or because being called fat is not such a bad thing in this culture.


PS. You know how at big sporting events, like the opening ceremony of the Olympics, they'll show a shot of the stadium from a blimp hovering above and you'll see an infinite amount of camera flashes? Now imagine each one of those flashes is a bolt of lightening. That was something like the storm two nights ago.

The Kitchen

It is a place of creation, of expansion.

Outside of this place, women whisper greetings with bowed heads. Here, they boast of their superior strength and throw playful punches. Here are friendships forged during countless hours over many years. It holds contests and races - who can peel the most potatoes, who can fan the fire for the longest. Here are patient teachers who hover over foreign students as they clumsily chop onions and tomatoes. Women nurse and stir the soup. Men stand at the door and tread lightly within.

The kitchen is the center, the keystone, a sanctuary where friends rest and receive news, safe from the tensions of business. Cats and puppies lie beside the cooling charcoal stove and pots simmer over open flames. Hens followed by day old chicks are shooed by a straw broom. Kale, cabbage, rice, green grams, cassava, chipati, ugali; all rest in baskets or hang from the thatched ceiling. A paraffin lantern gives light once the sun has finished. The breeze clears the smoke and brings the smell of rain.

It is a place of welcome. It can generate thanksgiving or reminders of shortage. It is a sacred school where secrets are passed between generations. Here, soil, water and sun become the tie that binds.

It is a place of resolution, a kind and daily end.

Mamas

There are few moments as blissful as when I meet old women along the path and say, "Oyawore. Ichiew Nadi?" which means, "Good morning. How are you waking?" Laughing, they lunge for my hand and grip it with the strength that comes from a lifetime of manual labor. They gently slap the back of my palm and fire off Luo to test my knowledge. My understanding ends so I simply smile, relish their calluses and toothless grins.

These interactions remind me of time spent with my own grandmother, times when she spoke a different language and I could only sit and listen. In much the same way, she held my hand, patted my arm, and warmed me with her laughter.

Rain

It sounds like being inside of a snare drum because that's essentially where I am. The round room with concrete floor and walls covered by a taut metal roof creates a very similar instrument. When it rains, it sounds like I'm trying to sleep inside of a snare drum that is being pummeled by an overzealous adolescent boy who lacks rhythm and inhibition.

The thunder reverberates throughout my entire body. It's like standing in front of enormous speakers that alternate between the same two notes at the bottom of the bass clef. Somewhat unsettling, it can continue for 10 or more seconds and towards the end of that time I start to wonder if a part of me, like my heart or another organ, is going to pop.

I asked the older men at the Kageno Community Center if they had heard the storm last night.

"What storm?" one of them asked.

"You didn't hear the rain and thunder?" I asked, dumbfounded.

They chuckled and shot amused glances at one another.

"That wasn't a storm," one of them explained, "that was just some rain."

I can't wait for the storms.

Alexandria died. She was 16.

One of Alphonces's neighbors, she would come to his house in the afternoon to help prepare the evening meal. It was during those times that I got to know her, as we peeled potatoes or as I marveled at her ability to do three times as much work as I could. A week before her death she was in good health, a lively teenage woman.

Her father came to the shamba this morning during breakfast. He expressed his thanks to Alphonce for helping to pay the funeral costs. He spoke for 15 minutes and made eye contact twice. The rest of the time he stared at the wall or out the open door. His hands never stopped tugging at the frayed edges of his hat.





Ana, the young girl in the picture above, contracted Malaria almost two months ago. During her recovery, bacteria attacked her liver. She received good medical care and medication because both of her parents are employed and can therefore afford the treatments. Since starting the regimen of drugs, her health has improved. The same cannot be said of almost 10,000 other children in Africa who die everyday of treatable diseases. That number can be too big to comprehend until you start assigning potential names to the masses: Ana, George, Dennis.

Peter, one of my running companions, holds Ana. Peter is Alexandria's brother. I asked Alphonce what I should say to Peter, how to best express my sympathy. "Just say you are sorry. To talk about the death would make him focus on the grief." There are close to 10 funerals every week in this small community. The life expectancy is just over 40. With so much loss, people here cannot grieve for long. They must plant before the rains start. They must walk to the lake to collect water. They must find firewood. They must to survive.

I hope it's more than 1,000.

Since being in Kenya, I've started a number of blog entries that haven't been posted. In spite of numerous revisions and hours spent thinking about how to best tell these stories, the writings just aren't enough. Words fail, or I fail to find the words.

So even though it makes me feel and look like more of an outsider, I've started carrying my camera more often. I hope the pictures will portray what I have thus far struggled to convey.


This is Charlie, the stud of the Kageno's Dairy Goat Project. He was brought all the way from South Africa to improve the gene's of the current goats on the island.



Fishing is the main livelihood for most of this island. They catch small fish called "omena" which are dried in the sun and then eaten whole. These children are resting on one of the boats the men paddle at night as they work their nets. Due to an extremely high unemployment rate, many women have resorted to trading sex for fish. This practice has lead to an HIV/AIDS rate the ranges from 40-80%, depending on the demographic.


Meet George. You may get the chance to meet him in person. He could be sitting next to Dennis on the flight back to America.


The Kageno Community Center shares a beach with the fishing boats shown above. If I had any desire to try omena it was squelched after seeing cows, like this one, drop massive amounts of manure on the drying fish.


At some point roughly 50 years ago a shipment of bicycles washed up on the shore of Lake Victoria and they are still being used today. It's amazing to see a child leap onto the moving bike and then have to lean to the left and right so his feet can reach the pedals.




This is Norah jumping rope behind one of the best schools on Rusinga. There are no windows, dirt floors, and the children sit 4 in a row on a small wooden benches.


At the end of a term, the students line up in front of the rest of the school in order of their marks; the highest are on the left, the lowest on the right. If that wasn't enough motivation/humiliation, the teachers sometimes separate those who failed and those who passed by about 20 feet and then lecture them on getting to the other side of the gap.


Protesting a goal during a soccer match with a homemade ball.