A one month trip turned into three and could easily have been three years. California has so much to recommend it. Roads like glass, good wines, cheap, lovingly crafted patty melts, most of my friends, most of my family, dearly loved one, Entourage, fog rolling in over Twin Peaks late afternoon July, days at the zoo, Cindy’s Market, the dahlias, honey mustard potato chips. It’s no wonder so many of us live there and anyone could understand our reluctance to leave.

This is what I have to say about California.

When I was finally able to book a flight, the first leg, SF to JFK was a long nap, sleeping through the meal offerings and waking up to the announcement that we were preparing for our final descent. Part two, JFK to Brussels was a quiet party. I checked in at the gate to see if I could get an exit row seat. She checked and told me I had been given an exemption or something and that I would be joining them in First Class. Oh my. The seats, broad and leather, are islands, surrounded on all sides by deep blue carpet. Before I could nod knowingly to my new fellow club members, a very cold glass of good champagne appeared. It felt like morning, so I added a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and made mimosas. A ramekin of warm cashews, pistachios and almonds followed.
“Which wine would you like from the list, sir?”
“Why don’t you just take me through the list over the course of the flight.”
“Excellent, sir, then you can tell me which you prefer.”
“I’d be happy to.”

There were hot, moist towels served on plates, nice long blankets, fluffy pillows in white linen cases, a toiletry bag with tooth brush, tooth paste, a sleeping mask, ear plugs, and other necessities, socks, a personal DVD player, Bose headsets, a book-like library of DVD’s to choose from, and some things I’m forgetting. I was too busy reenvisioning myself and my relation to air travel to compile a comprehensive list.

Dinner was, well, first class. A salad of frizee greens with cold chilled prawns, orange slices and a mild vinaigrette. Medallions of lamb, cilantro mashed potatoes, grilled asparagus spears and halved cherry tomatoes. Coffee, port, cheese plate, and “Oh, is that the pecan encrusted poached pears? If you insist.”

Just before settling in to watch The Italian Job on my cute little player…
”Shall I wake you for breakfast if you are sleeping?”
“Let’s play that by ear.”
“Fine, sir.”

I did, as I recall, awaken to fresh fruit, coffee, a brioche, yogurt, a large pressed linen napkin, and I think, a gold key to the city of Brussels.

So here’s my idea. To solve the airlines’ financial woes. Just treat everyone like they were first class fliers. People would rethink their leisure time. Instead of going to the Thursday afternoon Giants’ game, they would fly to …Toledo. enjoy their pampering, take a lap or two through the airport gift shops, thank their God they live in California, and be back in the City and down to Battery St. in time for dinner at Piperade, completely refreshed. No, I don’t know why they haven’t thought of this either.

Back in economy class from Brussels to Nairobi. No manicure, no massage, just doll house pillows and a seat back tilted under your nose. I feel like a disgraced government official.

I picked up “The Standard” (the newspaper whose raid by the government troops I mentioned in an earlier journal) shortly after I got back, and thumbing through found this item.

Reuters:
Women Strip To Appease Rain Gods.

Fifty women stripped naked and plowed their fields in West Nepal, in Kapilvastu, 190 kilometers west of Katmandu Friday night to bring rain for the parched paddy crop. “This is our last weapon, we used it, and there was a light rainfall,” the Nepali daily paper Rajdhani quoted one of the women as saying.

It seems to me the response by the rain gods was open to much interpretation.

The next time you feel overworked and underpaid, this may help right the ship. While I was gone, the 1500 liter tank we have for watering went dry. We had stored 3000 liters that we purchased from a water truck at Mary Mount Chapel, the Catholic church I’ve shown pictures of here. That in itself is a long and funny, in a tear-your-hair-out kind of way, story. Wilson, who lives and works on the property, hired a guy to draw the water out of the church’s cistern by hand with a bucket and a rope, fill 20 liter plastic gerry cans and then transport them by wheelbarrow about a third of a mile, most of it over an uneven path that cuts through the land adjoining the property, and then empty the water into our tank. He could haul four gerry cans per trip (21.3 gallons– think 20 gallons of milk from the supermarket, about 175 pounds). It took about twenty trips over two days to finish the job. Wilson pitched in and helped on the second day because the he could see the man was wilting under the task. He paid him the agreed upon amount–500 kenya shillings…a little less than seven dollars.

This is a picture of a wheelbarrow with four twenty liter gerry cans in it. These cans are empty.

A little more local news from the extended neighborhood. I ran into David Gitau, the ornithologist we are working with to establish the bird observatory and banding station on the property, at the Simba Mbili, the upstairs restaurant in Nairobi that we call the office. He had been working in the bush for a month or so, up at Lake Nakuru and Lake Elementaita. He said the flamingos are dying in very large numbers, and they can’t figure out why. It’s not the bird flu, and it’s not pollution, because lake Elementaita is spring fed. Bad news is always somebody’s good news. David says the Steppe eagles as they migrate down from Europe, funnel down through Israel, and fan out into Africa will amass in huge numbers at the lakes this winter, where they can live high on the flamingo.

Mary, from the Springs of Hope Home in Machakos — I’ve shown you pictures of her rescued kids in the journal — has been in desperate need of two 10,000 liter water tanks to be able to get free, clean water from the local government, and not have to buy water in very small batches like they have been at 10 to 15 kenya shillings per liter. Water for them means drinking, bathing, cooking, and doing all the laundry for the ten or so infants — who use cloth diapers — and for the rest of the kids, by hand. I happened to mention this at a small gathering to raise funds the project when I was in California. Here are a few pictures of Mary’s new water tanks, a gift from the Dentoni family. The company I bought them from threw in the pump and connectors needed, and built the two concrete pads for the tanks for free. Mary now has all the clean water she can use, and she believes that God is good.

Mary, some of the kids, the tanks, and yours truly.

This is Tom who delivered the tanks and the rest of us posing for Wilson, the newly appointed camera man.

This is Michael, whom I showed you after my first trip to Mary’s. He was tethered to his bed by an arm and a leg and given beer and an herbal concoction by his mother, a professional sex worker, to keep him and his older sister sedated all day long, while she left to go to work. He couldn’t walk or even sit up when he came to Mary’s at two and a half years old. Now he is walking and beginning to speak and generally carry on pretty well. He is now three years old.

On the way back from Nyumbani Children’s Home in Karen, Masa and I stopped in Kibera, the largest of several slum cities within the city of Nairobi. We walked and carefully took some pictures and I cranked up my new digital video HandyCam (Thanks Pat). I’m working on a way to get the video footage to you. In the meantime — still life in Kibera.

If you enlarge the photo, you can see that this road leads not only to some kids playing, but also to the Herb Clinic. Most of these photos benefit greatly by being enlared (just click on them to enlarge them).

One of the difficulties is that over a million people live here, densely concentrated, with no infrastructure. No running water, no sanitation, no electricity, etc. So it’s hard for people to avoid diseases that are spread in these conditions.

The bag this man is holding and continually inhaling from is partially filled with glue. The very cheap means of getting high, which exacts a very high price from its users. It massacres brain cells at a startling clip and eventually debilitates much of the nervous system. It is the curse of the street kids.

I passed this woman cooking potato chips. I asked I I could take her picture. She said no. “Next time,” I asked. She nodded. I walked about twenty feet down the street and then turned around and came back. “Is it next time,” I asked. She laughed and said it was not next time yet. We settled on a picture thrown in with two bags of chips I bought for 5 shillings each. They were delicious.

Just in case you need a place to stay when you visit, the Bismilahi Hotel has vacancies.

Two days ago, Friday, I met with Felix of the Daraja Project. They have a small place in Umola, one of the Estates (outer neighborhoods) in Nairobi. They work to get boys off the streets by identifying their skills and giving them training in those skills. They concentrate on art, athletics, soccer and gymnastics, and several other areas. Felix and the others involved are dedicated and do good work. I went to see the center and took some video footage and these shots of kids he is trying to reach who are still living on the streets. Then we went to the local slum area where the street kids live.

This is Duncan, a former street boy who now teaches art and painting to boys who come to the center.

This is Monica and her six month old baby, Auma. They live on the streets, just a little way from here. Dutch is next to her.

The boy in the front of this picture is Samuel. He is seventeen and is an orphan. He has been sniffing glue since he was six. He entered the program at the Daraja center to train in acrobatics, but dropped out. Each of these boys has a bottle of glue in his hand as this picture was taken.

This is the leader of the group I was photographing. He raised a fuss about no pictures at first. There were a few minutes when it looked like things might not go so well, but he changed when he saw the images and then wanted me to take some photos of him. If you enlarge this photo by clicking on it you will be able to read the plaque and the writing on the wall, so to speak.

A footnote: I just tried to click on this photo and the one of the three boys and instead of an enlarged photo I got what looked like the world’s longest cartoon swear word. I think this is because I cropped these pictures before I downloaded them, although the images shown don’t reflect the cropping. Who knows? Anyway the small plaque hanging on the wall in the photo says “God Bless Our Home,” and the barely legible writing says, “Only the dead person knows.”

He wanted me to take a picture of him feeding Monica. Providing for her as I took it.

The no-hands technique for sniffing glue.

The white substance on this boy’s lips is dried glue.

That’s Samuel right behind Felix’s hand in this picture.

A particularly quiet member of Felix’s audience.

There are always, everywhere trash fires burning. I don’t know if you can see them, but a man and a woman are working here.

We went to a make shift dump/recycling place, just a hundred meters or so from where we were. This is where boys who had hauled away household trash for a few shillings would bring it.

This woman who works there is sorting through the plastic section.

The owner of these feet was waiting to get paid for his load.

I don’t know his name, but his image has stuck with me.

We will continue to work closely with Felix and the Daraja Project, and with Mary’s Springs of Hope Home. They are both anxious to have a home like the one we will build to send some of their kids to.

Our project is moving along. We raised some money this summer and are looking to dig the bore hole soon, bring power from the National Grid to the property, buy a small, used pick up truck, and finalize the architectural plans. The job is fraught with all sorts of goofy twists and turns, and I certainly appreciate your thoughts and prayers on our behalf.

I’ll leave you with a couple these things:

You know how I can’t resist good signs. Here’s the latest installment.

At the Ocean Pub in Karen, a restaurant and bar Tony and ate at while waiting for the architect, who had forgotten our meeting, to return.

The goat meat ready for grilling at the Ocean Pub.

If you get the urge for good gizzard and have about a half a buck, swing by the T Tot in Machakos.

And some signs in the dirt.

This is what it looks like after a giraffe slips in the mud. This is one foot.

With some folks, it’s no mystery where they’ve been.

It’s good to talk to you again. Don’t be a stranger.

With love from Kenya,

David

Posted on September 2nd, 2006 by david
Filed under: David's Journal