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| REDEFINING KENYA Article by JoAnna Haugen, photos by Cory Haugen |
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.
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
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.
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.
Although the matatus scared me with their unbeltable seat belts, questionable drivers, and clearly unsafe
features, I felt safer confined in them than open and vulnerable outside. Street hawkers crowded around the
vehicles pushing everything from pencils to underwear. They intimidated me, but touts (the matatu
conductors who collected passengers and fare) regulated their pushiness to a certain extent so as not to
lose business. One afternoon after a day of grocery shopping and indulging in a meal out in Thika, a street
hawker climbed aboard our vehicle and firmly planted himself in the seat next to me.
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.
Although the matatus scared me with their unbeltable seat belts, questionable drivers, and clearly unsafe
features, I felt safer confined in them than open and vulnerable outside. Street hawkers crowded around the
vehicles pushing everything from pencils to underwear. They intimidated me, but touts (the matatu
conductors who collected passengers and fare) regulated their pushiness to a certain extent so as not to
lose business. One afternoon after a day of grocery shopping and indulging in a meal out in Thika, a street
hawker climbed aboard our vehicle and firmly planted himself in the seat next to me.
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.
me as I walked away from a group of taunting
children. I began dreading any travel outside of
my temporary dwelling.
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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 travel resource.
WAVE Journey is your one-stop online resource for women-oriented travel businesses & 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 travel resource.
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