There comes a time for change - said the one changing places and countries every day or week, but not clothes - and its time for a new blog. This is it for this blog at blogspot, but it will of course continue elsewhere both including old and new posts. Thanks for following me along my journey thru everyday life and our big, small world. To be continued.
theworldturnsslowly
http://theworldturnsslowly.wordpress.com
16 January 2011
11 January 2011
It’s all about bread
When arriving on my first night in Meru, Kenya I got settled in and went to see Alf, the founder and missionary behind KCA. I was greeted with a big smile and open arms, and was told how happy they all were to have me there. The table was set and a pot of food was waiting at the table. They had expected me quite a few hours earlier, but as it seem extremely tricky to time anything on this continent, I didn’t arrive until 9 pm. I was excited about having homemade Kenyan food and replied “yes, that would be lovely”, when asked if I wanted some warm dinner, closely followed by “I mean, if that’s what you usually eat”. The reply I got surprised me and sounded too good to be true. Alf said: “Well, usually we only have bread, jam and tea in the evening”. I’m certain I looked stunned and almost offended, but this was music to my ears as I stuttered, “Bread? Really? BREAD?” All I’ve been telling ppl at home for the last four months is how much I miss bread, and I found myself rude enough to request bread and jam instead of the wonderfully delicious prepared meal.
The bread was made of whole grains. It was fresh out of the oven from the super market. It was still warm. It was difficult to slice which resulted in nice, thick slices. The butter melted on the bread as in perfect harmony. It turned into a bread orgy. I had seven slices of warm untoasted brown bread with jam.
Heavenly!
The bread was made of whole grains. It was fresh out of the oven from the super market. It was still warm. It was difficult to slice which resulted in nice, thick slices. The butter melted on the bread as in perfect harmony. It turned into a bread orgy. I had seven slices of warm untoasted brown bread with jam.
Heavenly!
03 January 2011
Reality check
The New Year has been welcomed all over the world and the hopes for a prosperous 2011 are high. As well as cradle and nourish the year to come to make it so it meets our expectations, one also looks back at what the last year brought with it. 2010 was an eventful year for both the good and the bad, but I choose to focus on the good and take notice of the bad as experience. The last month has truly been a rollercoaster ride of these opposites, where there has been good in almost every bad situation and vice versa.
I’ve had the privilege of working at Kenya Children’s Aid (KCA) in Meru, Kenya over Christmas and never before have I laughed and loved, cried and hurt all together over such a short period of time. KCA has many projects and supports all together 650 children and families in Meru with the help from sponsors in Norway. They also run a night home for homeless street boys who come every night for a meal and a bed to sleep in. There’s also an orphanage for former street boys who have been rescued from the street’s brutality, and are now within safe premises and are all attending school. The total headcount at the orphanage is 19 and the age span reaches from 6-16. The orphanage was my main base for the time I stayed in Meru and my main task was to attend to the boys; to care for them, play with them, give them attention and affection.
It has been fun as the same time as it was hard. The boys are very well behaved, but they all carry heavy burdens of what their former lives used to consist off. In despite of the age difference the boys have managed to find their place in the group and it’s a well-functioning brotherhood. During December the boys have a holiday from school so they were more than ready to be activated and engaged in any activity offered. So when a mzungu (a white person) came to stay at the orphanage the possibilities were many and the joy enormous. It is safe to say that I have been surrounded by the boys every second I have of my time, and it was fittingly said that they were clinging to me like ornaments on a Christmas tree. To many of the boys’ dismay I wasn’t able to squeeze more than four boys into my arms at a time, but as soon as one would get lured out of its place in my arms the rush for the free space at times knocked the air out of both the mzungu and the other boys at times. My fascinating pale, white skin got quite a lot of attention. The boys quickly discovered the blue things on my arms (blood veins), the strange brown spots they found on my skin (moles) and the hair covering my arms (I said that we needed fur in Norway due to the snow, which made sense to them all). All of this needed some explanation, but what caused most stir were my piercings and tattoos. They would point, maybe dare to get as close as a centimeter from the piercing of interest before pulling away as if their finger hurt terribly.
As well as spending time with the boys I also got to be a part of the other work KCA does. We visited several families who lived in unimaginable poverty in dangerous areas. Their house would usually consist of a room of 10 square meters where they slept, cooked and passed time, with no electricity or safety apart from a padlock on the door. There was especially one girl who used to have no future we cared for in the time period I was at KCA. She had a c-section two years ago when her second child was born and the wound had never completely healed. At the time when she was admitted to the hospital she was in a terrible state, and had we waited any longer her two girls would most likely have lost their mother. She had to have a new surgery as her skin was badly infected and rotten. The surgery went well and she could return home to her daughters after approximately two weeks. Her daughters are absolutely sweethearts and the first born took to me immediately. We spent a day with them at the market to get them some new clothes and she sat on my lap or in my arms for a total of three hours. Sadly, it’s the lightest four-year old I’ve ever carried. The youngest is two years old and she unfortunately seems to be deeply scarred by the events that her life has been affected by so far. I spent almost an entire day with her without seeing her smile or make an effort to play. I wanted to keep her close and protect her as much as possible, but she pulled away and wanted to be by herself. Both girls bore signs of malnutrition as their stomachs were swollen, their hair was discolored and they had started losing hair. Unfortunately this took a turn for the worse and on Christmas Eve the mother had to be readmitted to the hospital as the wound yet again was infected. The cries and faces of those two girls as we took the mother away from them again will haunt me for a while. I am glad to say thou that she will fully recover and things are looking better the third time around.
I also visited the night home one evening just as the boys were arriving from the streets. The smell of glue was reeking and the lack of electricity complimented the state of the boys when I got there. Almost all of them were high on glue, giggling and joking between the inhalations of glue. I could make out the faces of the boys, only the contours of their skinny bodies, ragged clothes and drowsy eyes. One of the boys came up to me and took my hand. He looked at me and said “I know you”. I had to take a closer look before I recognized him. One day at the marked there was a street boy who followed me for a long time wanting me to take his photo. He was wearing no shoes, a dirty shirt, moth-eaten pants and an oversized male blazer. His cheek was swollen badly which was due to tissue damage after a fight that happened some time back. The swelling would never retreat and his face would be deformed for the rest of his life. I leaned down to the boy and asked him his name. “Kevin”, he replied as he squeezed my hand and kissed it. He thereafter took my hand to his cheek and held it close for several minutes. I pulled him close to me as we kept talking mixing Kiswahili and English to be able to have a conversation we both could make sense out of. I put my hand on his back to stroke it, and when my hand touched the blazer I expected to touch his back. It turned out thou that the blazer was more an oversized shell and I had to press the blazer ten cm in to reach his back. What I felt was only bones and I was afraid I was going to hurt him by gently patting his back. The lump in my throat grew bigger and I felt chills down my spine. This was too much for me to handle and it pained me more than I can put into words. So many times have I seen pictures and heard about the street children in Africa, but that night everything changed. The street children suddenly got a name, a handshake and a name. Kevin. He has no future.
These are only a few glimpses into the life at KCA and it should be emphasized that it’s a truly fantastic work with sunshine stories as well as terrible fates. Every day I met a person in dare need of help, but I also met someone enormously grateful for the help they were given and how they managed to survive and fight for a life out of poverty. The smallest events can cause an amount of joy like I’ve never experienced. Buying clothes for the boys was like Easter, Christmas and 17.May at the same time. To see the excitement and pure joy in their faces was priceless and their gratitude endless.
In many cases ignorance is bliss, but Meru has really opened my eyes to the real world; both its beauty and misery. I wouldn’t change it thou, no matter how painful it might have been at times.
Reality is harsh. Reality is inspiring. Reality is surprising.
I’ve had the privilege of working at Kenya Children’s Aid (KCA) in Meru, Kenya over Christmas and never before have I laughed and loved, cried and hurt all together over such a short period of time. KCA has many projects and supports all together 650 children and families in Meru with the help from sponsors in Norway. They also run a night home for homeless street boys who come every night for a meal and a bed to sleep in. There’s also an orphanage for former street boys who have been rescued from the street’s brutality, and are now within safe premises and are all attending school. The total headcount at the orphanage is 19 and the age span reaches from 6-16. The orphanage was my main base for the time I stayed in Meru and my main task was to attend to the boys; to care for them, play with them, give them attention and affection. |
| Kevin |
As well as spending time with the boys I also got to be a part of the other work KCA does. We visited several families who lived in unimaginable poverty in dangerous areas. Their house would usually consist of a room of 10 square meters where they slept, cooked and passed time, with no electricity or safety apart from a padlock on the door. There was especially one girl who used to have no future we cared for in the time period I was at KCA. She had a c-section two years ago when her second child was born and the wound had never completely healed. At the time when she was admitted to the hospital she was in a terrible state, and had we waited any longer her two girls would most likely have lost their mother. She had to have a new surgery as her skin was badly infected and rotten. The surgery went well and she could return home to her daughters after approximately two weeks. Her daughters are absolutely sweethearts and the first born took to me immediately. We spent a day with them at the market to get them some new clothes and she sat on my lap or in my arms for a total of three hours. Sadly, it’s the lightest four-year old I’ve ever carried. The youngest is two years old and she unfortunately seems to be deeply scarred by the events that her life has been affected by so far. I spent almost an entire day with her without seeing her smile or make an effort to play. I wanted to keep her close and protect her as much as possible, but she pulled away and wanted to be by herself. Both girls bore signs of malnutrition as their stomachs were swollen, their hair was discolored and they had started losing hair. Unfortunately this took a turn for the worse and on Christmas Eve the mother had to be readmitted to the hospital as the wound yet again was infected. The cries and faces of those two girls as we took the mother away from them again will haunt me for a while. I am glad to say thou that she will fully recover and things are looking better the third time around.
I also visited the night home one evening just as the boys were arriving from the streets. The smell of glue was reeking and the lack of electricity complimented the state of the boys when I got there. Almost all of them were high on glue, giggling and joking between the inhalations of glue. I could make out the faces of the boys, only the contours of their skinny bodies, ragged clothes and drowsy eyes. One of the boys came up to me and took my hand. He looked at me and said “I know you”. I had to take a closer look before I recognized him. One day at the marked there was a street boy who followed me for a long time wanting me to take his photo. He was wearing no shoes, a dirty shirt, moth-eaten pants and an oversized male blazer. His cheek was swollen badly which was due to tissue damage after a fight that happened some time back. The swelling would never retreat and his face would be deformed for the rest of his life. I leaned down to the boy and asked him his name. “Kevin”, he replied as he squeezed my hand and kissed it. He thereafter took my hand to his cheek and held it close for several minutes. I pulled him close to me as we kept talking mixing Kiswahili and English to be able to have a conversation we both could make sense out of. I put my hand on his back to stroke it, and when my hand touched the blazer I expected to touch his back. It turned out thou that the blazer was more an oversized shell and I had to press the blazer ten cm in to reach his back. What I felt was only bones and I was afraid I was going to hurt him by gently patting his back. The lump in my throat grew bigger and I felt chills down my spine. This was too much for me to handle and it pained me more than I can put into words. So many times have I seen pictures and heard about the street children in Africa, but that night everything changed. The street children suddenly got a name, a handshake and a name. Kevin. He has no future.
These are only a few glimpses into the life at KCA and it should be emphasized that it’s a truly fantastic work with sunshine stories as well as terrible fates. Every day I met a person in dare need of help, but I also met someone enormously grateful for the help they were given and how they managed to survive and fight for a life out of poverty. The smallest events can cause an amount of joy like I’ve never experienced. Buying clothes for the boys was like Easter, Christmas and 17.May at the same time. To see the excitement and pure joy in their faces was priceless and their gratitude endless.
In many cases ignorance is bliss, but Meru has really opened my eyes to the real world; both its beauty and misery. I wouldn’t change it thou, no matter how painful it might have been at times.
Reality is harsh. Reality is inspiring. Reality is surprising.
21 December 2010
Jambo mzungu!
It was almost like getting a warm welcome-home-hug when I arrived in Kenya after a long sleepless night travelling from Qatar to Nairobi. It was a night filled with too many airplane meals and a heavy load of homesickness. I arrived weary and drained in Nairobi with tears still stinging my eyes. I filled out my visa application and waited in line. I walked up to the counter and handed over my papers and passport.
“How long are you staying in Kenya, madam?”
“No longer than 30 days, sir”
“Well, I’m giving you a visa for three months and you’re not allowed to leave before it expires”, said the man handling my papers with a big smile and a laugh. “Welcome to Kenya, madam, I hope you enjoy your stay”.
Could Kenya give a better first impression? Absolutely not! I walked out to collect my bags and went to figure out how on earth I could make my way into Nairobi. I was called over by a smiling man in a transportation booth who wondered if I was in need of a taxi, which obviously I was. I told him where I needed to go and he gave me a price. Still being skeptic by nature after a month in India I was certain he was ripping me off based on my skin color and my ragged backpacker-look. I dismissed his offer as overprized and with no further a due pulled out my new Bible, the LP East Africa. To my surprise the price they had listed for a taxi from the airport to the city centre was higher than what I had been offered, and I felt extremely stupid when I looked up at the man, who was still smiling, and had to admit that he had given me a good prize. The deal was made and I gave the exact address to where my hostel was located. It turned out that this was a distance outside the centre which would cost more, but the friendly gentlemen decided to overlook this small detail. He thereafter walked me out to my taxi, introduced me to my driver and welcomed me to Kenya. My driver turned out to be a very chatty and pleasant man, and the 40 minute drive was over before I knew it.
I arrived at the hostel and was once again greeted by a Kenyan with a big smile which beams of friendliness and warmth. She helped me settle in a dorm before she gave me a tour of the premises which included the bar, the leopard-draped lounge area and the “watchdog” Scooby who prefers a belly-rub. She finished off by saying: “Welcome to Kenya, and make yourself at home”.
My homesickness faded as my heart grew fonder of Kenya and its ppl. Maybe the reason is as simple as it seems; that it hasn’t really faded but has been satisfied. Because I did very much feel at home after just a few hours, and I have ever since.
Looks like I may have found a third home in Kenya
“How long are you staying in Kenya, madam?”
“No longer than 30 days, sir”
“Well, I’m giving you a visa for three months and you’re not allowed to leave before it expires”, said the man handling my papers with a big smile and a laugh. “Welcome to Kenya, madam, I hope you enjoy your stay”.
Could Kenya give a better first impression? Absolutely not! I walked out to collect my bags and went to figure out how on earth I could make my way into Nairobi. I was called over by a smiling man in a transportation booth who wondered if I was in need of a taxi, which obviously I was. I told him where I needed to go and he gave me a price. Still being skeptic by nature after a month in India I was certain he was ripping me off based on my skin color and my ragged backpacker-look. I dismissed his offer as overprized and with no further a due pulled out my new Bible, the LP East Africa. To my surprise the price they had listed for a taxi from the airport to the city centre was higher than what I had been offered, and I felt extremely stupid when I looked up at the man, who was still smiling, and had to admit that he had given me a good prize. The deal was made and I gave the exact address to where my hostel was located. It turned out that this was a distance outside the centre which would cost more, but the friendly gentlemen decided to overlook this small detail. He thereafter walked me out to my taxi, introduced me to my driver and welcomed me to Kenya. My driver turned out to be a very chatty and pleasant man, and the 40 minute drive was over before I knew it.
I arrived at the hostel and was once again greeted by a Kenyan with a big smile which beams of friendliness and warmth. She helped me settle in a dorm before she gave me a tour of the premises which included the bar, the leopard-draped lounge area and the “watchdog” Scooby who prefers a belly-rub. She finished off by saying: “Welcome to Kenya, and make yourself at home”.
My homesickness faded as my heart grew fonder of Kenya and its ppl. Maybe the reason is as simple as it seems; that it hasn’t really faded but has been satisfied. Because I did very much feel at home after just a few hours, and I have ever since.
Looks like I may have found a third home in Kenya
08 December 2010
Three days of sanity
“You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone”. Nothing could be truer, I’ve concluded, after spending three months away from home. Therefore spending three days in Doha, Qatar has been as close to home as it gets – at least for now. It’s a breather betwixt and between past-chaos (India) and expected to be chaos (Africa).
Words cannot start to describe how wonderful and almost foreign it felt to be in a country where things actually function in a known structure and system. Where the cars drive on the right (in double sense) side of the road, are equipped with seatbelts and only use their horns to wake up a driver who has fallen asleep on a red light or to signalize to the pedestrian wandering in the middle of the road that this is its territory and he better get out of the way. What I normally would have considered noisy traffic was now close to silence. No trash flooding the streets, ppl are not staring at you as if you were from Mars and therefore not stumbling over the none-existing garbage lying around and credit cars are widely accepted. You can also look completely lost and even pull out a map trying to orient yourself without anyone offering you assistance (ahh, just like home), whereas in India before you even knew you were lost everyone else seemed to have picked up on it and were gathering around you wanting not only to point you in the right direction, but actually follow you all the way. The only thing giving away that I’m not as home as I feel I am, are the long white robes the men are wearing and that I hardly see any women (literally due to their completely black covering outfits). Also the minarets towering into the air – amongst the enormous futuristic skyscrapers – tells me that I’m still quite a distance from home.
Doha actually had a Floridian feel to it with the SUVs being the king of the road, palm trees wherever you look, warm climate, ppl constantly exercising and no pedestrian crossing (all the pedestrians are in a SUV). It is also a city where business and money flow, and there are ppl from all over the world having business lunches dressed in their suits and ties in the staggering Qatari heat. Thou some seemed to have found the perfect solution, much to my amusement. In the middle of the waterfront park there were several businessmen in their black suits sitting on blankets in the shade either working on their computer (free wi-fi park) or talking on the phone. I had to admit that it wasn’t a bad idea and decided to join them the next day, thou I left the suit-part out of it. Also, the car brands are luxurious and I was more likely to spot a brand new Mercedes, Lexus, Cadillac or Porsche than any other car.
The days in Doha were much needed and well spent. I slept in and ate late breakfasts (that meaning 9 am), enjoyed having a king-size bed with soft and clean sheets, watched BBC and finally felt updated on the world. I spent most of the days in souq waqif (the old market place) where I drank great coffee, smoked apple hookah and watched ppl and the world go by. I even got an educational boost thanks to a random Swede I ran into. I feel reenergized after a Western boost and a few days of luxury.
Bring it on, Africa!
Words cannot start to describe how wonderful and almost foreign it felt to be in a country where things actually function in a known structure and system. Where the cars drive on the right (in double sense) side of the road, are equipped with seatbelts and only use their horns to wake up a driver who has fallen asleep on a red light or to signalize to the pedestrian wandering in the middle of the road that this is its territory and he better get out of the way. What I normally would have considered noisy traffic was now close to silence. No trash flooding the streets, ppl are not staring at you as if you were from Mars and therefore not stumbling over the none-existing garbage lying around and credit cars are widely accepted. You can also look completely lost and even pull out a map trying to orient yourself without anyone offering you assistance (ahh, just like home), whereas in India before you even knew you were lost everyone else seemed to have picked up on it and were gathering around you wanting not only to point you in the right direction, but actually follow you all the way. The only thing giving away that I’m not as home as I feel I am, are the long white robes the men are wearing and that I hardly see any women (literally due to their completely black covering outfits). Also the minarets towering into the air – amongst the enormous futuristic skyscrapers – tells me that I’m still quite a distance from home.
Doha actually had a Floridian feel to it with the SUVs being the king of the road, palm trees wherever you look, warm climate, ppl constantly exercising and no pedestrian crossing (all the pedestrians are in a SUV). It is also a city where business and money flow, and there are ppl from all over the world having business lunches dressed in their suits and ties in the staggering Qatari heat. Thou some seemed to have found the perfect solution, much to my amusement. In the middle of the waterfront park there were several businessmen in their black suits sitting on blankets in the shade either working on their computer (free wi-fi park) or talking on the phone. I had to admit that it wasn’t a bad idea and decided to join them the next day, thou I left the suit-part out of it. Also, the car brands are luxurious and I was more likely to spot a brand new Mercedes, Lexus, Cadillac or Porsche than any other car.
The days in Doha were much needed and well spent. I slept in and ate late breakfasts (that meaning 9 am), enjoyed having a king-size bed with soft and clean sheets, watched BBC and finally felt updated on the world. I spent most of the days in souq waqif (the old market place) where I drank great coffee, smoked apple hookah and watched ppl and the world go by. I even got an educational boost thanks to a random Swede I ran into. I feel reenergized after a Western boost and a few days of luxury.
Bring it on, Africa!
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