Hello again.  I hope this finds you well…

Since I last wrote, things around here have become increasingly busy, and I’m now finally getting a chance to sit down and reflect a bit…

Believe it or not, for the past several years, there has been only one homeless man living in Ugunja.  Such is the paradoxical yet comforting state of affairs: even as the average person around here is quite poor, even as the birth rate soars, even as the number of AIDS orphans increases, the sense of community is strong enough that—as a bare minimum—virtually everyone is provided with a roof over their heads (even if it’s just a piece of sheet metal) and food in their stomachs (even if it’s just plain cornmeal)—a claim that can’t be made in many, far more affluent parts of the world.  In fact, resources in general are shared freely; there really isn’t the strict, this-is-mine-and-that-is-yours sense of private ownership that we in industrial capitalist countries take for granted.  At times, practically speaking, this lack of concern for personal property can be a bit annoying, such as when I lend someone a pen and never see it again.  But, in principle, I much prefer this more open and communal mentality, as I feel it promotes egalitarianism and cooperation (if you can’t tell, I dream of a socialist world, though I (perhaps fatalistically) doubt that human beings will ever ascend to such heights).

Anyway, about this homeless man: he wasn’t always homeless.  Until a few years ago, like most other adult men in Ugunja (these days, an increasing number of families are rent-paying tenants in the town centre), he owned a modest plot of land in a nearby village—essentially family-owned land that was informally passed down through the generations until it was officially apportioned to him as his own soon after Independence in 1963.  I’ve yet to sort out all the details, but apparently—for whatever reason—a few years back he decided to sell his land to his brother, who to this day lives on an adjacent plot.  But the brother never paid the full sum to purchase the land, so the man in question later tried to resell the land to a local wealthy landowner.  Inevitably, a dispute arose among the three actors, and somehow the man ended up with neither the land nor the money (the wealthy landowner, probably by bribing the relevant officials, managed to obtain the land rights).  As a safety net, Kenyan law states that, if necessary, a person may retain the rights to the minimal amount of land required for permanent settlement—that is, the man was legally entitled to keep his house, if nothing else.  Yet, the landowner razed the man’s hut, suddenly leaving him penniless (er, shilling-less) and homeless.  And, in classic Cain-and-Abel fashion, the brother offered no assistance.

                Ever since, he’s been a bit of a forest-dweller—fashioning a roof by tying together plastic bags, and begging for food.  He’s quite old now—my guess is that he’s about 80.  The UCRC has decided to act upon this human rights violation, and for the past week or so, we, as well as other community members, have mobilized to build him a new hut on his former land.  It’s been hard work, but it’s all worth it just to see the profound look of gratitude (and surely perplexity as well) on the old man’s face as he watches us (including several white people!) get down and dirty.

                On a related note, I’ve been duly impressed with the architecture and engineering behind this traditional Luo hut.  Granted, in terms of grandeur, it pales in comparison to, say, the Parthenon, but the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the hut’s design is amazing.  Basically, all the materials are locally available—and I emphasize “locally.”  The hut’s wooden skeleton is made from trees growing a few feet away, the thatched roof from grass growing in a nearby field, and the walls from mud found, well, in the ground directly below us.  Yet, despite the simple and basic materials, the average lifespan of a traditional hut is about 60 years.  And, for sheer recreational value, building a wall by hurling handfuls of mud at the wooden skeleton sure beats piling bricks and mortar.

… In other news, I spent a day at a nearby health centre, and—for the second time in my life, I witnessed the birth of a child (well, technically, it was the third time, but I was a bit more than a witness the very first time J).  The last time was back in high school, when I was shadowing a doctor as part of an assignment.  What little I remember of it was pretty incredible (I got a bit lightheaded and almost fainted), even with all the sterility of a modern hospital.  Well, this time, I managed to remain fully conscious throughout, in spite of the mother’s blood-curdling screams (it was a natural birth).  It was an amazing experience, though seeing the little baby’s head pop out reminded me of a scene from the movie “Aliens.”  In the end, after much hard labour (from all sides: the mother, the baby, the nurse, and my wobbly knees), the world welcomed a healthy boy weighing in at 2.9 kgs.

… Finally, I’ve been busy organizing a Nyasanda School program slated to begin next Monday.  The school will be closed during the month of August (Kenyan students get only this one month off, and this happens to coincide with harvest season), so rather than have the students be mostly idle (besides helping out with their family farms), we wanted to arrange for small internships in which they can volunteer their labour at local institutions while learning about the institution’s activities and services, thus creating a mutually beneficial relationship between the students and the institutions).  We’ve never had such a program before, so it’s been a challenge to try to press out all the logistics from the ground up, but things have progressed nicely, and—come next Monday—the students will be travelling to three institutions—the mission hospital, health centre, and district hospital (all of which have been mentioned in previous entries)—to gain hands-on experience in basic health care practices.

     The coordination and planning of the program has been gratifying for me (in a self-absorbed sort of way), as—for the first time—I’ve been able to head up a UCRC project on my own, rather than merely assist or follow other volunteers at the Centre.  Not that there’s any merit in having “my own” project, but it is a nice feeling to realize that I’ve established myself firmly enough that I can now bear the responsibility of (for the most part) independently designing and coordinating this project.  (Lest I give myself more credit than I deserve, I must say that I have benefited greatly from numerous consultations with Aggrey)  I guess I’ve sort of “come of age” as a volunteer at the Centre J.

     On top of that, it’s been wonderful to travel around on my own.  Partly because vehicle transport is so risky, but more so just to get some exercise and enjoy the scenery, I’ve travelled either by foot or by bicycle for the planning meetings at the three health facilities (it’s a one-hour walk to the mission hospital, a 30-minute walk to the health centre, and a 1.5-hour bike ride to the district hospital).  It’s exhilarating to find my way through the backcountry dirt paths of rural Kenya—something I would definitely miss were I to travel by matatu, and there’s nothing like riding a bike through verdant tropical hills at the chill of dawn, the sun rising ahead on the horizon, slowly but surely illuminating this latter-day paradise.