"Polite notice"

"Greetings to you in the name of Jesus", as the sign in our hallway says. :-)
I have finally figured out how to make it possible for anyone to comment on my blog posts. So now it should be fine. So... I am expecting a LOT of comments from now on, sawa?
Have a wonderful day!

Kenya is the country where...

... you're woken up by pentecostal meetings at 7 AM (beats the alarm on my phone anyway).
... you have to make sure a restaurant actually has food before you decide to eat there.

... kids, when given a microphone, find it more natural to pretend to be preachers than rockstars ("Hallelujah! Amen!").
... doing laundry is painful, though extremely fun!

... you might catch a ride with the private bus of the best football team of the country, if you're lucky.
... "How are you" is not a greeting, but a nickname.

... you're constantly surprised at how many people speak Norwegian (without any particular reason).
... the mashed potatoes are green!

... having a picture of Osama bin Laden on the back of a public vehicle is totally OK.
... it's legal to drive with 30 live chickens attached to your car's roof.

... every stranger is a friend you haven't met.

(Want to know more? Check out http://www.magiskekenya.blogspot.com/)
Photos by Miriam C.L, Audhild R and Ragnhild E.O

Eastlands irony

Yesterday Ragnhild and I went for a walk in Mathare to visit some other Norwegians working in the area. We had, as usual, greeted a few kids along the way (how are you mzungu!), passed by colourfully dressed ladies with babies tied to their backs and groups of men on the sidewalk, eating roasted corn and discussing the latest news. My thoughts are always the same as I move around this said-to-be violent and dangerous area: "This isn't so bad, these people are great! Friendly, peaceful, hospitable...".

I expressed my ideas to Ragnhild, saying that "when I get back to Norway, I'll make it my main cause to change peoples' prejudice about this place. I'll make them understand that it's perfectly safe and indeed pleasant to be here!". Same-old impulsive and optimistic me, I did it again.

As we were just about to reach our work-place, a girl maybe 8 years old approaches us. "That side is bad,", she says, pointing down the road. "What do you mean, bad?" I replied. An 8 year-old should never have to bear news like the ones she gave us a moment after: "People are fighting just over there. They have pangas (machetes)".

We were of course shaken by what we heard, and we went back to the centre we work at. Luckily the riot was not very big and quite far from where we were, so at no point were we in danger. Still, bearing in mind what happened in Mathare just two years back, the incident made me rethink my concept of this "peaceful and pleasant" place.

As I dive deeper into the cross-cultural experience, I am learning that nothing is completely black or white. Sure, there is a lot of prejudice against Mathare, and many rumours that have nothing to do with the truth. The place is indeed peaceful and pleasant... most of the time.

But at the same time I would not pay full respect to my friends who live there, if I did not acknowledge the hardships that they go through. Riots, mob-violence, death and disease might be hidden by a smile or consoled by trust in God, but that does not make it disappear.

Every day I learn something new. Yesterday God showed me, like many times before, that life consists of happiness and suffering, and one does not eliminate the other. The art of life is to know how to grow by acknowledging and learning from both.

I hope I'll someday get the hang of it...
(Pictures by Audhild Rue and Miriam C. Lilledrange)

Psalm 119:45

This post is going to be about children. Not the managable kind of school children who know how to walk, talk and take care of their own hygiene. No, this post will be about the chaotic, cronically wet, hyperactive kind of kids, the ones that we've gotten to know in the "Little Treasures Daycare" at Mathare Worship Centre.

Many of you might be familiar with my attitude towards kids under 4 years of age. I find them terrifying. My explaination usually being that "they always cry and you know they want something, but they don't tell you what!", I try to avoid them as much as possible. Well, at least I used to.

You can imagine my reaction the first time we visited the daycare. Having 30 toddlers running around your legs, covered in every bodily fluid known to man while the smaller babies where crying their lungs out, produced only one instinctive reaction in my mind: run.

But this post is not going to be a pessimistic, self-pitying narration of my sufferings in the daycare. Because you see, I've come a long way since that day. Kids are funny that way, I didn't need to spend more than a few hours among them before I saw past the mass of noise, smell, spit and tears, and saw what they really are: God's beautiful creations, each with his or her own personality, gifts and purpose in life.

There is Owen, who only talks when his mom is around, but who holds on to me from the moment I arrive and refuses to let go untill I leave. There is Steve, who with his round, Chinese-like face can melt the coldest corner of my Scandinavian heart, and who copies me when I speak Norwegian. The is Junior, who literally spends his days running on the walls (bam!). There Francis who serves as our guide ("this girl is thirsty, and that guy misses his mom"), and Mathei who weighs about twice what he should. There is Rhoda, who is only four years old, but takes care of her 1 year-old sister in every way: feeds her, carries her, changes her diaper...

God has His ways of following His plans through. When I came to Mathare Worship Centre, I was convinced that I would be more comfortable working among the older kids is class 5 and 6. Untill now I have spent all my time running back and forth between class 2 and the daycare, and I couldn't be happier. It is amazing to see how God is equipping me through this year, busting every barrier that I have put on my own potential. If I had known two months ago that I would spent my time in Kenya working with babies and toddlers, I would seriously have reconcidered coming. God, however, had His own plans for me, and as usually He succeded.
I am forever grateful.

Kenyan public transport, where anything can happen

It is about time to dedicate a post to the very soul of Nairobi, being the infinite number of matatus, nissans and busses rushing in every direction day and night. That's right, you don't know Nairobi untill you've managed the public transport system.

Now, to begin with a bit of background information, there are as mentioned three kinds of public vehicles in Nairobi. The most common ones are Nissans, which have room for 14 persons (often written as "14 blacks" or "14 Kenyans" on the side of the vehicle). However, they usually carry at least 15 or 16 persons. You will find all sorts of Nissans, from the plain, quiet ones going into posh estates, to the really noisy ones, painted in any colour you can imagine, that operate in the ghetto areas. The latter are of course the preferred ones, because as they ususally write on the walls: "If you don't like the noise, buy your own car".

The next ones are the infamous matatus. They look like giant beetles trespassing the crazy Kenyan traffic, ususally carrying thrice their capacity. These ones generally have a TV in front and a bass that would make any "russebuss" rust in shame. Then there are the bigger, but calmer busses, more predictable but also boring. Their names are however very interesting, some of them being "Stalingrad Shuttle", "Mexico City" and "The Negotiator".

I have lost count of all the marriage proposals I have gotten on public vehicles. The most memorable however, went something like this: "You see, this matatu has six wheels and one spare wheel. I am the matatu conductor, and so I also need a spare wheel, would you like to be my spare wheel?".
I didn't...

But on our trips through the jungle of public transport we have also made some great friendships, the most important one being Charles. Charles works downtown on the public transport station. His job is to get clients for the Nissans going to our part of town, and negotiating the prices (which vary from 10 to 70 shillings, depending on the length of the trip, time of day, weather and how much you look like a tourist that day). After running into him a few times, Charles has become our good friend. We have had a few nice talks while waiting for a Nissan to come along, and he always gives us good prices even if it comes out of his own pocket. He is one of many examples that Kenyans are genuinely friendly and hospitable people who always look to make newcomers feel at home. Slowly by slowly, my scepticism towards helpful Kenyans is replaced by gratitude that not all countries welcome visitors the way Norway does...

We have had a few memorable incidents on our Nissan rides. Just the other day we ended up being the centre of a heated discussion. The conductor, handles the money on the vehicles, had made a mistake and given us back the wrong amount of change. As we made this clear to him, he refused to give us the rest. Before we knew it every passenger on the nissan was involved and from the many sharp comments given to the conductor (in swahili of course) we picked up phrases like "...God saw what you did..." and "... call the police...". The change that the conductor wouldn't return was an equivalent of 7 NOK.

Today Audhild and I went to do some errands closer to town. We were coming back on a Nissan and had just reached the junction that leads to our area when the vehicle suddenly turned around and went another way. Feeling somewhere between excited and worried, we asked the driver what was going on. "There is a police patrol ahead, so we need to take a detour", was the answer I got. My question on why the driver didn't want to run into the police was elegantly avoided: "the officers are too harsh these days..."

It's all part of the everyday excitement: getting into the Nissans, Matatus and Busses not knowing exactly where you will end up, how much you'll have to spend or what kind of interesting characters you will run into. One thing is certain in any case: I'm not longing to get back to the half-empty, quiet public transport of Norway anytime soon.

(Pictures by Ragnhild E. Opdal)

Esther

Today I made a new friend. Her name is Esther and she is three years old. I met her sitting on the stairs outside of Mathare Worship Centre, the place where I work. She was all alone, her dress hanging off one shoulder, her face covered in tears and flies.

I asked around, "doesn't anyone know this girl?". Yeah, they did. She used to be in the daycare, but her mom couldn't afford the 1.50 NOK a day fee to keep her there. In stead, she started leaving her outside on the stairs, telling her to stay put untill she came back from looking for work some 6 hours later. So she does. She stays put, not making a single complaint, that she's hungry, that she's lonely. Nobody minds her sitting there. You see, she's disabled. Not like other kids, she can't even walk well. She's probably not worth the bother.

But Esther is a kind and loving girl. She might not talk much, but her hugs and the way she clings on to every person who bothers to see if she's ok, says more than a thousand words could.

Welcome, welcome in our class!

It's been quite some time since I last updated this blog, due to such bad excuses as lack of time, lack of concentration etc.. Anyways, I'm back. I think it's about time that I tell everyone a bit about the work that we are actually doing here in Kenya.

Right now the four of us are volunteering in a place called Mathare Worship Centre. This centre holds a primary school, a daycare, a microfinance program and a clinic for testing and check-ups of HIV patients. We've been working mostly in the school and also a bit in the daycare.

The school is open from 7 in the morning to 5 in the afternoon. It houses a nursery class, a pre-school class, and 1st to 6th grade. The kids usually go crazy when they see us, and they sometimes end up fighting over which classroom we should be in. When we finally enter one, we're usually met by this welcoming poem:
"Welcome, welcome in our class!
Happy to see you,
happy to hear you,
in our class!
Welcome, welcome in our class!"

I've been assigned as the assistent teacher of class 2, a great group of fifteen 7-8 year-olds. They're the best kids ever, kind, crazy, compassionate, clever, I've really fallen in love with every single one of them.
Their classroom is about 3 times 3 metres in size, and holds three benches and a blackboard which tends to fall down. The teachers come and go a bit as they please, so the kids have lots of free time. That's when I step in, to play lion or crocodile, sing songs, draw every animal known to man on the blackboard and anything else I can do to brighten their day.

I might not be a trained teacher, or ever have a lot of experience with kids. But my hope is that for these particular 7-year-olds, having a crazy Norwegian redhead imitating a lion might break the routine of an otherwise discouraging reality.