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| A Woman's Directory For Travel and Life. WAVE Journey is your one stop online resource for women oriented businesses and services around the world. WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, read or revel in outdoor activities this website is for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or if you are interested in finding businesses or services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your number one online resource. REDEFINING KENYA Article by JoAnna Haugen, photos by Cory Haugen Continued on next page... |
| WAVE Journey |
| Women's Adventures, Vacations & Experiences ~ Your Journey Starts Here! |
A small boy outfitted in an oversized, threadbare
t-shirt grabbed my sleeve. “Nipe, Mama,” he
begged. Give me.
Street orphans abound in Kenya. They crowd
nearly every corner and vacant space in Kenya’s
largest cities. Nobody knows for sure how many
homeless kids roam the country, but estimates
range from 20,000 to 60,000 street children in
Nairobi alone, and with the ongoing civil conflict,
there are sure to be even more.
t-shirt grabbed my sleeve. “Nipe, Mama,” he
begged. Give me.
Street orphans abound in Kenya. They crowd
nearly every corner and vacant space in Kenya’s
largest cities. Nobody knows for sure how many
homeless kids roam the country, but estimates
range from 20,000 to 60,000 street children in
Nairobi alone, and with the ongoing civil conflict,
there are sure to be even more.
Westerners, for the most part, are blind to the realities of life in Africa. When it comes to
Kenya, we think of elephants wandering among acacia trees. We picture chocolate-
skinned Maasai jumping in their shukas, beads layered across their bodies. For the most
part, we imagine an exotic culture where people live with the earth, speak in beautiful
tongues, and embody a carefree, simple existence.
When I squeezed into my first matatu and began looking for the seatbelt that didn’t
exist, I noticed a hole in the floor below my seat that went straight to the littered ground
below. When I began volunteering with a local non-governmental organization that
helped educate teenagers about AIDS, I didn’t understand why one of the girls wore an
Easter Sunday dress every day…until I realized it was the only clothing item she owned.
When that child grabbed my sleeve with one dirty hand while gripping a bottle of glue
with his other, I had to redefine what Western society told me Kenya was.
Kenya, we think of elephants wandering among acacia trees. We picture chocolate-
skinned Maasai jumping in their shukas, beads layered across their bodies. For the most
part, we imagine an exotic culture where people live with the earth, speak in beautiful
tongues, and embody a carefree, simple existence.
When I squeezed into my first matatu and began looking for the seatbelt that didn’t
exist, I noticed a hole in the floor below my seat that went straight to the littered ground
below. When I began volunteering with a local non-governmental organization that
helped educate teenagers about AIDS, I didn’t understand why one of the girls wore an
Easter Sunday dress every day…until I realized it was the only clothing item she owned.
When that child grabbed my sleeve with one dirty hand while gripping a bottle of glue
with his other, I had to redefine what Western society told me Kenya was.
Petty crime, like street kids, is also rampant in Kenya, but this shouldn’t have surprised
me. In any country where the average adult makes slightly more than a dollar a day
and the unemployment rate hovers around 40 percent, what can any Westerner
expect? Even my grubby, second-hand clothing stood out in a crowd.
One hot afternoon, after hours of travel from Voi to Nairobi on a crowded bus, my
husband and I hopped on a matatu for a ride to Thika. We squeezed between the
overweight mamas holding plastic bags filled with produce and past the children who
reached out to stroke our hair-covered white skin. In the last row of seats, a single
twenty-something man sat pressed against the window. As we maneuvered into the
row, he slid to the center of the seat, forcing my husband to sit on one side of him
while I sat on the other.
The ride was hot, and I was stifling in my sweatshirt, holding a stuffed duffel bag on
my lap. All I wanted to do was to reach our final destination—a tiny rural village tucked
a couple hours outside of Nairobi in Kikuyu country. As the images outside the window
began to blur into a single line of color and action, I felt a strange jostle in my side. I
shifted my weight and touched my rib, shocked to find the man’s fingers unzipping my
“hidden” money pouch beneath my sweatshirt. I pushed him away, and he got up and
moved to the front of the vehicle. I didn’t know what to do. In Kenya, people are
subject to public beatings and death for being labeled a thief, and I certainly didn’t
want to be responsible for anything along those lines. I signaled to my husband to
check for his wallet, which was fully intact. The man got off the matatu, and I sat
shaking, cursing Kenya, wanting to cry.
me. In any country where the average adult makes slightly more than a dollar a day
and the unemployment rate hovers around 40 percent, what can any Westerner
expect? Even my grubby, second-hand clothing stood out in a crowd.
One hot afternoon, after hours of travel from Voi to Nairobi on a crowded bus, my
husband and I hopped on a matatu for a ride to Thika. We squeezed between the
overweight mamas holding plastic bags filled with produce and past the children who
reached out to stroke our hair-covered white skin. In the last row of seats, a single
twenty-something man sat pressed against the window. As we maneuvered into the
row, he slid to the center of the seat, forcing my husband to sit on one side of him
while I sat on the other.
The ride was hot, and I was stifling in my sweatshirt, holding a stuffed duffel bag on
my lap. All I wanted to do was to reach our final destination—a tiny rural village tucked
a couple hours outside of Nairobi in Kikuyu country. As the images outside the window
began to blur into a single line of color and action, I felt a strange jostle in my side. I
shifted my weight and touched my rib, shocked to find the man’s fingers unzipping my
“hidden” money pouch beneath my sweatshirt. I pushed him away, and he got up and
moved to the front of the vehicle. I didn’t know what to do. In Kenya, people are
subject to public beatings and death for being labeled a thief, and I certainly didn’t
want to be responsible for anything along those lines. I signaled to my husband to
check for his wallet, which was fully intact. The man got off the matatu, and I sat
shaking, cursing Kenya, wanting to cry.
Kenya shocked me. Every unknown made me
suspicious. The street kids alone almost sent
me packing. In towns I walked quickly, gripping
the canvas straps of my backpack tightly,
rudely brushing off any kids who might
approach me. “Potea!” I yelled at them. Get
lost! They laughed and pointed at me,
clustering into gangs that would follow me
around town, waiting outside shops until I had
returned with my purchases. One young boy
grabbed my chest as I sat in a waiting vehicle.
suspicious. The street kids alone almost sent
me packing. In towns I walked quickly, gripping
the canvas straps of my backpack tightly,
rudely brushing off any kids who might
approach me. “Potea!” I yelled at them. Get
lost! They laughed and pointed at me,
clustering into gangs that would follow me
around town, waiting outside shops until I had
returned with my purchases. One young boy
grabbed my chest as I sat in a waiting vehicle.
A teenage girl, clearly high on inhalants, groped me as I walked away from a group of
taunting children. I began dreading any travel outside of my temporary dwelling.
taunting children. I began dreading any travel outside of my temporary dwelling.