Nairobi we decide not to tell him of our decision until we see children advancing.
It is nighttime when we land at Jomo Kenyatta Airport and pleasantly cool. We are met by Kentice Tikolo, an immensely good-natured Kenyan lady who helps run CARE’s Nairobi office and who shepherds us into waiting cabs. In
Out of
Africa,
Nairobi was depicted as a sunny little country town, so I am disappointed to find that at some time in the past 50 or 60 years they took away that pretty scene and replaced it with Omaha, of all things. Nairobi is merely yet another modern city with traffic lights and big buildings and hoardings advertising Samsung televisions and the like. Our hotel is a Holiday Inn—very nice and comfortable, but hardly a place that shouts: “Welcome to Africa, Bwana.”
“Oh, you will see plenty of Africa,” Kentice assures me when we convene at the bar for a round of medicinal hydration. “We’re going to show you lots of exotic things. Have you ever eaten camel?”
“Only in my junior high school cafeteria, and they called it lamb,” I reply. I take the opportunity, while Dan is at the bar, to ask her about the street children I read about on the flight.
“Oh, that’s the least of your worries,” Kentice laughs. “Car-jackings are much worse. They can be quite violent.”
“What a comfort to know.”
“But don’t worry,” she says, laying a comforting hand on my arm and becoming solemn, “if anything goes wrong we have excellent hospitals in Nairobi.”
We retire early because we have an early start in the morning. I am disappointed to find that there is no mosquito net around the bed in my room. Unaware that Nairobi is malaria-free, I slather myself with insect repellant and pass a long night sounding like two strips of parting Velcro each time I roll over in the bed and dreaming terrible dreams in which Jungle Jim, assisted by a tribe of white pygmies, chases me through the streets of Omaha with dung balls.
Sunday, September 29
In the morning
we drive to Kibera, a sea of tin roofs filling a mile or so of steamy hillside on the south side of the city. Kibera is the biggest slum in Nairobi, possibly the biggest in Africa. Nobody knows how many people live there. It’s at least 700,000, but it may be as many as a million, perhaps more. At least 50,000 of Kibera’s children are AIDS orphans. At least a fifth of the residents are HIV positive, but it could be as high as 50 percent. Nobody knows. Nothing about Kibera is certain and official, including its existence. It appears on no maps. It just is.
You can’t just go in to Kibera if you are an outsider. Well, you can, but you wouldn’t come out again. Kibera is a dangerous place. We were taken on a walking tour by the district chief, an amiable giant named Nashon Opiyo, and three of his deputies, all Kibera residents. They are employed by the government to keep an eye—and occasionally a lid—on things, even though Kibera doesn’t officially exist.
To step into Kibera is to be lost at once in a random, seemingly endless warren of rank, narrow passageways wandering between rows of frail, dirt-floored hovels made of tin and mud and twigs and holes. Each shanty on average is ten feet by ten and home to five or six people. Down the centre of each lane runs a shallow trench filled with a trickle of water and things you don’t want to see or step in. There are no services in Kibera—no running water, no rubbish collection, virtually no electricity, not a single flush toilet. In one section of Kibera called Laini Saba until recently there were just ten pit latrines for 40,000 people. Especially at night when it is unsafe to venture out, many residents rely on what are known as “flying toilets,” which is to say they go into a plastic bag, then open their door and throw it as far as possible.
In the rainy season, the whole becomes a liquid ooze. In the dry season it has the charm and healthfulness of a rubbish tip. In all seasons it smells of
It is nighttime when we land at Jomo Kenyatta Airport and pleasantly cool. We are met by Kentice Tikolo, an immensely good-natured Kenyan lady who helps run CARE’s Nairobi office and who shepherds us into waiting cabs. In
Out of
Africa,
Nairobi was depicted as a sunny little country town, so I am disappointed to find that at some time in the past 50 or 60 years they took away that pretty scene and replaced it with Omaha, of all things. Nairobi is merely yet another modern city with traffic lights and big buildings and hoardings advertising Samsung televisions and the like. Our hotel is a Holiday Inn—very nice and comfortable, but hardly a place that shouts: “Welcome to Africa, Bwana.”
“Oh, you will see plenty of Africa,” Kentice assures me when we convene at the bar for a round of medicinal hydration. “We’re going to show you lots of exotic things. Have you ever eaten camel?”
“Only in my junior high school cafeteria, and they called it lamb,” I reply. I take the opportunity, while Dan is at the bar, to ask her about the street children I read about on the flight.
“Oh, that’s the least of your worries,” Kentice laughs. “Car-jackings are much worse. They can be quite violent.”
“What a comfort to know.”
“But don’t worry,” she says, laying a comforting hand on my arm and becoming solemn, “if anything goes wrong we have excellent hospitals in Nairobi.”
We retire early because we have an early start in the morning. I am disappointed to find that there is no mosquito net around the bed in my room. Unaware that Nairobi is malaria-free, I slather myself with insect repellant and pass a long night sounding like two strips of parting Velcro each time I roll over in the bed and dreaming terrible dreams in which Jungle Jim, assisted by a tribe of white pygmies, chases me through the streets of Omaha with dung balls.
Sunday, September 29
In the morning
we drive to Kibera, a sea of tin roofs filling a mile or so of steamy hillside on the south side of the city. Kibera is the biggest slum in Nairobi, possibly the biggest in Africa. Nobody knows how many people live there. It’s at least 700,000, but it may be as many as a million, perhaps more. At least 50,000 of Kibera’s children are AIDS orphans. At least a fifth of the residents are HIV positive, but it could be as high as 50 percent. Nobody knows. Nothing about Kibera is certain and official, including its existence. It appears on no maps. It just is.
You can’t just go in to Kibera if you are an outsider. Well, you can, but you wouldn’t come out again. Kibera is a dangerous place. We were taken on a walking tour by the district chief, an amiable giant named Nashon Opiyo, and three of his deputies, all Kibera residents. They are employed by the government to keep an eye—and occasionally a lid—on things, even though Kibera doesn’t officially exist.
To step into Kibera is to be lost at once in a random, seemingly endless warren of rank, narrow passageways wandering between rows of frail, dirt-floored hovels made of tin and mud and twigs and holes. Each shanty on average is ten feet by ten and home to five or six people. Down the centre of each lane runs a shallow trench filled with a trickle of water and things you don’t want to see or step in. There are no services in Kibera—no running water, no rubbish collection, virtually no electricity, not a single flush toilet. In one section of Kibera called Laini Saba until recently there were just ten pit latrines for 40,000 people. Especially at night when it is unsafe to venture out, many residents rely on what are known as “flying toilets,” which is to say they go into a plastic bag, then open their door and throw it as far as possible.
In the rainy season, the whole becomes a liquid ooze. In the dry season it has the charm and healthfulness of a rubbish tip. In all seasons it smells of
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