An African Adventure

In October 2009 I was a single 34 year old woman determined to experience a grand adventure.I saved up my money and climbed Mt Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, worked in an orphanage in Mombasa, Kenya, and visited my World Vision sponsor child in Ethiopia.

This is my account of my experience in Mombasa, Kenya, the most humbling week of my life.

The humidity of Mombasa hits me like a wet blanket when I step off the plane onto the tarmac. Even though it’s evening in the city you can still see the poverty that is just a way of life for the Kenyans. Mud brick houses with tin sheeting for windows and doors line the roads as we make our way into the heart of town. People walk barefoot beside the car trying to sell us an assortment of goods – pieces of sugarcane to chew on, second hand shoes, and bags of over-ripe bananas.

During the day the chaos is astounding! Tut tut’s and matatau’s honk their horns looking for passengers heading in their direction. I see a matatau with “Mshomoroni” on the side in faded print and catch the eye of the conductor. The mini bus seats 15 people at a push (including the passenger seat up front) so that means I squeeze on with 20 other people. By now I’m used to people staring at me so I put on a brave face and pretend I’ve done this a hundred times. For 20 Kenyan shillings (20 cents), the matatau takes me on a 25 minute journey down bumpy dirt roads, past food markets and the Indian precinct to one of the poorest villages in town, Mshomoroni. I tap on the side of the door and try and catch the driver’s attention over the deafening beat of the stereo playing reggae. The matatau comes to a screeching halt as I try not to bang my head on the metal bar in front of my seat. I’m hit with a rush of cool air as I slide past the large Kenyan woman with the sack of potatoes on her lap and step down into the mud. It’s been raining.

The sweat pours from me but instead of stopping for a drink, I walk with purpose down dirt alleyways, ignoring the cries of “mzungu, mzungu!” (white person, white person!) that are shouted my way. Little street kids run up and ask, “How are you? How are you?” but they don’t understand what it means. They just know that’s what you say to a mzungu. They jostle each other for a chance to touch my skin or to hold my hand.

As I get further into the depths of Mshmoroni, I have to take detours. The rain from the last few nights has settled into rivers that prevent me from walking the alleyways that I know.

I finally see little children in their red and white uniforms and know I’m at New Hope Orphanage. They scream and jump up and down as I get nearer and give me the biggest hugs you could ever wish for. Their uniforms are dirty and stained, missing buttons, and some children have no shoes and play in the mud, but they are the happiest, smiling faces I’ve ever seen.

Little princess Rose outside New Hope Orphanage

I go into the storeroom and avoid the baby mouse on the floor, and I grab a sack of beans that need sorting. It takes a good three hours to sort the good beans from the bad, so the kids can eat a good meal tomorrow. I throw out a handful of rocks that would not have made for a pleasant meal.

At 12pm a rush of excited and hungry kids burst through the door ready for their bowl of beans and rice. The little ones rush away to play in the alleyways whilst the older boys come home for their “Mt Kenya” bowls of lunch. The empty dishes pile up on the floor where later I’ll wash them all in a bucket.

Yesterday was my first day at their school. Walking to school from the orphanage felt like I’d been transported to a World Vision television campaign. Babies lying on the side of the road playing with empty water bottles and the thinnest goats you’ve ever seen feeding on rubbish. The sound of singing children sounds like hope. I sit with the grade two kids all morning and sing Kiswahili songs and teach English words for telling the time.

At lunch I play skip rope with the girls using a too short piece of rope whilst I watch Sarah, my new eight-year old friend, eat two small lollies for lunch. If I give her my muesli bar then what do I give the other kids? I can wait for dinner but how do you decide who gets food and who goes without? It crushes me.

That evening, as I go to bed listening to the local mosque melodically calling all Muslims to prayer (I feel like I’m in the Middle East), I feel sad that tomorrow is my last day at the school. This has been the most eye-opening, humbling week of my life and I feel so grateful for everything that I have at home, but most of all for everyone I have at home.

I miss you.

Melissa