Busy with the World

-Bryce

Traveling again. I’m racing along the tarmac in a taxi with James, a 17 year old back at Pepo for a break from Secondary school. To my right is Goolo, the cab driver. Not a word had been spoken in 20 minutes. We all know the deal. We’re headed to Kambi Garba.

Part of what I’m doing at Pepo La Tumaini is helping to fill in the gaps in their capacity. In this case they need photos. APHIA II EASTERN, the East Africa branch of USAID, has required photos for all the children they give Antiretroviral Aids medicine to. A seemingly small demand, except Pepo doesn’t have a camera. Nor do any of these 899 children have photos available. 28 are registered in Kambi Garba. Not bad I thought.

This is my third trip to Kambi Garba in four days. It’s a small dusty dry village with nomadic tribes. Thorns tangle around dirt yards, hiding dilapidated shacks and the occasional camel. Residents are largely Borana, Somali, and Turkana. None of whom have the friendliest history toward one another.


The first journey resulted in five photos of registered children and 15 photos of children who have been orphaned since the registration list was made. Some street kids threw rocks at us while we got a tour of the local water sources.

“Trash water” Sarafina Kamaro calls it. She’s a community Elder and our contact in Kambi Garba, “Look, it’s full of trash.”

It is. Isiolo river travels through a military base, several villages, then town before here. The water has a stink to it.

“We drink the water, then we get sick. Stomach aches.” She goes on.

“You don’t’ boil it?”

“No,” she answers looking back at the mile walk to her home.


She takes us to a small spring in the side of the river. It’s tucked away in a rocky hole only small enough for a small water bottle. A young girl of about 8 sticks her hand in the hole fills the bottle and empties it into a 10 liter jerry can weighing about 30 pounds when full. It takes awhile.

A day later, the second trip resulted in four photos. Only one of them from the register.
I’m remembering all this when the cab swerves to avoid a herd of goats. Goolo doesn’t flinch. He just turns up the radio. Somali music, I’m thinking.

About 30 minutes after leaving Isiolo town we arrive at the end of the tarmac. This is where the road ends in Kenya. From here it’s dirt roads all the way to Somalia. Small buses shoot like bullets out of the desert leaving dust like vapor trails.

It reminds me of a friend in the U.S., a Somali refugee. He told me with a chuckle, “After the soldiers had killed my family I walked to Kenya. Then they told us to leave. So I walked to Ethiopia. When it got bad there, I walked back to Kenya. You can never take a car! You’ll get shot!” He had the biggest grin on his face.

But the present is different here and construction has begun again on the tarmac. Large hills of gravel and sand loom over a newly leveled path fading into the distance. Children wave from atop the mounds. The Kenyan government is extending the road to some nearby tourist destinations, safari parks and the like. For a while longer, the road still ends in Isiolo.

James and I get out of the taxi and pay Goolo. He nods and speeds away.

We go down some small dirt paths off the main road. They wind to and fro. The thorn fences rise and create a tunnel over us. We have to walk in single file.

“They are called Panya routes. We are panya here!” James lets out with a smile.

“Panya?” I ask.

“Rats! We are rats.”

A tattered looking woman stands roadside as if waiting for us. We ask her for directions and she takes us the rest of the way. Sarafina’s home is a bit of an orphanage. Five women saunter about doing various chores and tending to children. There are near 20 children in various states of disarray. A good number of the Kambi Garba youth are in school, but these children are simply around. They range from 6 months to 10 years. We exchange greetings and start going over who is left on the list.


Selina Nawatan: Nomads School
Shadrak Ekidor: Moved to a different district
Zainabu: Lives in Shambani
Christine Engngiri: Lives in Shambani
Lokale Goko: New Life School
Akuta Ngoko: Has gone on a journey
Kebo Akwara : unknown…

10 more are living in Shambani, a small village just across the river.

“Can we go?” I ask.

The yard erupts with chatter. Women with babies on their backs and hips, old grandmas who can barley walk, a drunken woman from the street jumps in the fray.

“They will not take us,” James translates. “They say the people there are so much for money. They say to forget the children there and just take care of the ones here.”

As I surmise and later confirm with the Chief of the area, Kambi Garba and Shambani have a long standing grudge. No one is clear why, but I’ve grown to suspect water issues. Whatever the problem, they’re not taking or letting us go there.


After taking about 10 photos, we hear yelling from a group running down a road 100 feet off.

“Wait here,” Sarafina lets out then runs off leaving us with a drunk woman demanding I take her photo.

James and I guess it’s another illegal alcohol raid. Walking through Isiolo town this morning, we caught glimpses of some police raids at some local changa huts. Changa being the Kenyan equivalent of moonshine. It’s cheap and poisonous. I know of at least one person who used it to commit suicide.

We eventually make our way to the confusion. Someones cut a camel with a machete. A Turkana man has slashed the leg of an eight-foot camel. There is an angry crowd and some official looking individuals. The camel sits on the ground bleeding. Another stands by its side chewing lethargically. Three weeks later I find out the man who slashed the camel meant to feed his family with it.

A child from the list is at the scene. Another picture taken and name crossed out.

Half an hour later, James and I are walking down the tarmac. We’re heading to New Life. A primary school a kilometer outside of Kambi Garba. We need a photo of a single attending student. The sun beats down and we share a water bottle.

“So what are you doing after school?” I ask.

“Where or what?” James responds.

“Both.”

“I’d like to be… a doctor or a journalist. Yes, I’d very much like to be a journalist!”

My ears perk.

“Yes. I’m even secretary in the journalist club at school. I love it very much. …I’m very interested in people from everywhere. Ai, those journalists get to know things. They are always so very busy with the world!”


A police wagon roars down the tarmac. It’s carrying several of the people from the camel incident. It kicks up dust and we’re alone again.

After another ten minutes we reach New Life School. The gate is chained. Dried plants line the fence. Inside it’s a ghost town. Dusty and empty.

“You. Is the school open?” James calls out to a child milling about near the road.

“Closed,” the kid responds.

“Closed for everything?” I ask.


James gives a questioning shrug, looking a little hopeless. We stand there for a moment soaking in the sun then head back to Kambi Garba.

Sarafina explains she’ll arrange with the child later. We then find out the ride we expected isn’t coming. And we haven’t enough for a taxi or bus. It’s about a eight kilometer walk back to town. We’ve hitchhiked before, but it’s just police and army vehicles today. Not ideal.

A little ways down the road a hulking tour bus rolls by. It’s a 12 wheel, 20 foot high, yellow and green vehicle. More commonly used to help the army traverse rivers. The tired looking tourists look down from a high.

20 photos down 879 to go. I know I’m not going to finish taking the pictures. And I know Pepo won’t either. The occasional volunteer might have the camera and the time. Each of the 899 children need a daily activity report as well. That’s 899 pages a day from a largely illiterate community.


James and I walk past the construction at the end of the road and back towards town. We spend most of our time talking and dreaming of cool milk or water. We go back and forth about whether soda is good for quenching thirst. But neither of us really care what we're going find in town. Really anything would do.

The Two Faces of Development

Posting by Jordan

Beloved friends,

Apologies in advance for the essay-style blog entry! Hope you have the patience to make it through. As always, would love to hear any comments or reflections.....

If only the staff at one of these giant international development organizations could spend a day in the life of Khadija, or Stella, Mr. Konyango or Nassir, Yussif or anyone here at A Wind of Hope. I think it would take only one day for them to completely change their attitude. That’s usually what it takes to begin to empathize; spending time in the other person’s shoes. Yet, alas, it seems the time will never come, and these international organizations will continue to impose their rigid standards, completely oblivious of the lives of the people they hope to serve, and the daily struggles they face to perform the mundane: connecting to electricity, printing a piece of paper or making a photo-copy.

I remember one day waking up early, eager to prepare for one of my first community-banking meetings. My needs were simple: print-out a few materials for a brief workshop. Unfortunately, I came with my Western expectations. My subconscious told me: "A task like this should take no more than half an hour." Well, I think expectations are our worst enemy, because when a half hour is up, we begin to become impatient; and when an hour hits irritation comes a knocking; after two or three hours we lose all hope and rationality and either suffer in silent fury or find a way to laugh if off (usually with a touch of hysteria).

That morning I began as I usually do: move the generator to its workplace, check for kerosene and pull the crank. As often happens, our little friend remained motionless. Usually a few prayers, curses or threats will get it going, but not this morning. The hour mark hit: irritation knocking. We decided it must be the spark plug so I rode off on the WOHA motorbike, begrudgingly attempting not to speed while I pass the frantically waving children, cross the sharp rocks and dirt mounds and weave through the apathetic herds of goats and cattle. Finally, I reached the internet café, one of two in Isiolo. I decided to try printing there before I bought a new plug.

The network is slow but reliable, when the power is on. Luckily, that morning we were blessed with electricity (another thing we take for granted in the west!). Unfortunately, after preparing everything, the printer wouldn’t work… Two hours have passed now and I feel the first inclination of hysteria….

Well, simple enough: I go to the local petrol station, buy a spark plug and head home, confidently telling myself that I can start the little red Honda and print from my laptop. Shortly after reassuring myself I feel an uneasy sensation, a gentle swaying, almost like driving through sand…. Flat tire… Almost exactly half-way between home and the petrol station! And believe it or not it was but one of three that I would have in the day. The same motorbike, the same tire…. Well, if nothing else, I made pretty good friends of the local mechanics. But, I had to quickly leave behind my expectations of half an hour as the sun began to near the horizon and I was only then ready to print my handful of pages.

I don’t mention this to complain (however much you may be thinking otherwise!). I mention this to bring to light some of the challenges that the devoted staff must deal with here. Truly, when these people are occupied in other activities, lives are lost. And I would guess that around 30 to 40% of the work here is spent on these types of remedial tasks--not because of lack of knowledge, skill or capacity, but simply because they don't have the resources we take for granted in the US.

Khadija and the staff of WOHA recently met with one of their main donors. The relationship is a difficult one, as is usually the case between a donor and a recipient. As much as the latter may wish to do things their own way, ultimately, they are dependent on the former. It is often a demeaning sort of relationship. You would be aghast at some of the stories of what these grassroots organizations are forced to do because their donor wanted something done in a particular way. But the donors have all of the cards, all of the bargaining power, with none of the liabilities. Most crucially, they do not have to face the people that their policies effect.

Khadija, on the other hand, and everyone at WOHA, must face these people on a daily basis. Indeed, they are these people; One with the community. So when a policy is changed, it is Khadija that must share the news. This was the case when a major donor recently decided that they needed more accountability. Now, anyone who eats their nutritional support has to not only sign a form with each meal, but provide passport photos as well. I wonder if this organization has ever visited the people they are supporting, most of who live in mud huts without running water or electricity. How can they sign their names if they are illiterate and can’t even afford pens and paper? Khadija brought this up with the elders from Malitano and they replied by saying that they would rather go without the food than deal with all of the hassle.

The problem with development, as I see it, is that you have two worlds: you have the world of the grassroots organizations, the roll-up your sleeves type of workers who come from the communities they hope to change. Then, you have the large international organizations and the expatriates, mostly from Western countries, who live by different standards, have very different lifestyles and carry many different expectations (as I have learned!). Unfortunately, the Western organizations use their standards to evaluate the grassroots organizations. And since they cannot be there to really monitor the situation, they create fanciful goals and unrealistic expectations. They use a western mode of evaluation, a western form of record-keeping, a western style of management. But when will we become humble enough to listen to these people—maybe even learn from them—and to simply help them to obtain the resources they need to continue doing what they do best: caring for and serving the people they love.

Until next time,

jordan

Maji (Water)

Posting by Jordan

Dear friends,

We have been in Isiolo about a month now and our current task is to visit the different villages to try and understand the main problems affecting the local peoples. Isiolo is a very remote, sparsely populated region of Kenya with so many tribes and languages that it is difficult to keep track of everyone (the main tribes are Boran, Turkana, Samburu and Meru). Fortunately, each tribe has a “center-point” that serves as a meeting place and communication post from where the rest of the village can be called and informed.

We have visited a few center-points now and, although the tribes are very different, the experience is much the same. Since we are partnering with A Wind of Hope in the Arid—one of
the few organizations that has gained the trust and support of all tribes—we are welcomed with much fanfare: boisterous women are inevitably the first to greet us, dressed in the most striking colors, always leading the others in a melee of singing and dancing. We form a circle for a while—us “wuzungu” doing our best to mimic the local flavor—and are eventually pulled into the middle by joyous women who have a great time teaching us the traditional dances. The site of us white wuzungu hopelessly attempting the dance brings a chorus of laughter and we are eventually called to be seated. The group forms another circle, with the 2-3 three elder men sitting to the side, as if to declare their status and uniqueness, and we are welcomed with a prayer and asked to speak.

We question the villagers about the main problems facing their community. Despite the diverse tribes, the answers we are given—just like the welcomings—are also much the same. Indeed, although many communities mention HIV/AIDS, lack of food and run-down schools as problems, there is always one underlying challenge, one root cause that is inevitably mentioned: maji (water), the epitome of what we take for granted in the West. Simply turn a lever, press a
button or twist a hinge and there it is, pure, distilled and ready for consumption. Yet, who of us can imagine walking for hours on end, in the blistering desert heat, with the galling weight of 5-gallon buckets of polluted water on our heads, only to return again the following day? This is the reality for many here in Kenya.

The situation in some villages is ironic: They have the water, they have the land, but they have no way of getting the water to the land. When we visited the Turkana tribe a few days ago they told us: “We don’t want any more hand-outs! No more food! Just find us a way to access the river water and we can start farming.” Indeed, the African villagers understand the principle of sustainability, much more than we ever could.

Isiolo is a region like much of Africa; It straddles the line between desert and savanna. Yes, it is dry… very dry. But only a few miles away there are lush forests and ubiquitous agriculture. If we listen to the scientists, places like Isiolo are becoming even drier, and the weather more extreme. This is what the people see here. Years of drought have decimated crops and livestock, gradually destroying decades of work and preparation. And when the rains finally came, it took the form of the worst floods even the eldest of elders had ever seen, washing away most of the remaining food sources.

So, the people here struggle in desperation. Many in the West know that malnutrition causes emaciation, vulnerability to diseases, brain damage and, eventually, a slow and agonizing death. This is all true. However, the effects on a community are even more devastating: tribes war over cattle and other scarce resources; men and women receiving AIDS medicine are made even worse by the powerful drugs; groups of young men rape women in sad attempts to restore their power; parents sell their young daughters into prostitution in order to put a little food on the table; and whole villages become completely dependent on outside resources.

This latter point—dependence—takes many forms, none of which are beneficial. In one village, a windmill was constructed to pump water from the ground. But, as soon as the windmill stopped working, there was no one to repair it. So it sits there, turning and turning but doing nothing.

In another village, UNICEF told the locals to start digging trenches, promising to return to lay the pipes and bring water to the impoverished community. So, the people worked, around the clock, digging and digging, women and children, men on AIDS medicine, some who even died in the process, hoe in hand, thinking not only of themselves but of the future of their community. One villager mentioned how he didn’t care if he ever saw the water himself, but the thought of his community receiving this life-giving elixir sometime in the future was enough to keep him working. It’s been three years now… The trenches are still there… as are the people… waiting….

This is what makes our work so challenging. All of the false promises have created a palpable atmosphere of distrust and suspicion. But we are slowly being accepted. We try to not make promises we can’t keep, and to listen to the people themselves for solutions to their problems. So far, it looks like we can solve many of the problems with only a few thousand dollars per village: a simple solar or manual water pump with some pipes can bring water from the rivers to the villages, and water-purifying bags that use solar heat can make the water potable. At this point we are researching all of the different options, so please, if anyone has any experience in this area, send us an e-mail and share your thoughts, comments or ideas. Specifically, we are trying to find the cheapest, most efficient way of either transferring river water or extracting ground water.

In the US, we have seen the impact of extreme weather. Hurricane Katrina was an ample reminder of how quickly a city—and a nation—can be brought to its knees. Climate change is something affecting all of us, simply as a result of being residents of the same planet. Yet, it does not affect all of us in the same way. As devastating as Hurricane Katrina was, it does not even compare to the impact that is being felt here in Isiolo, or in other developing countries. In Isiolo the problem is insidious, continuous and worsening, with no relief in sight. In the West we at least have our basic needs met, and I have begun to realize that without this, you can have no peace, no trust, no unity, no prosperity. All of the problems mentioned earlier—the wars, the child prostitution, the HIV/AIDS, the malnutrition, the suspicion—these are not African problems; they are human problems. We would surely act the same way if we were faced with such a situation. The Samburu tribe in Malitano put it very clearly: “If you solve the water problem, you solve all of the problems.”

- jordan

Health Clinic Update

Posting by Nyla

Greetings from Kenya,

It is so amazing to be here and see the health clinic go up before my eyes. In a little less than a week the clinic is already halfway built. I've been told that by next Monday all the walls will be completely built.

The people are so involved that on the first day of construction people were seen taking goats and donkeys to the bank as collateral so they could get loans for materials while they waited for the donations to be wired from the USA. They told me that they want this lab to be built as soon as possible because they are so poorly treated for HIV related illnesses by the district hospital and sometimes this lack of care can be fatal. They really look forward to being cared for by a place that nurtures instead of stigmatizes them because of the virus.

Another reason why the health clinic has been able to be built so quickly is because everyone in the community is involved; from young children to elderly women. We came to the site one day and saw that children were carrying rocks that they collected for the foundation and bringing them to the construction site. While everyone was working it started pouring. At the same time as the rain, a truck full of construction materials showed up. Immediately all the men went to seek shelter but the women and children got in the trucks and started to toss out the rocks, laughing, singing and getting completely drenched by the downpour! We stood awestruck by the power of these two very different generations working together. We learned later that these generations are the backbone of the Pepo La Tumaini community because the continuing devastation of AIDS and tribal clashes has taken the lives of the parent generation and now the majority of the community are children and the elderly.

I wish that my words could do justice to this meaningful experience. Instead I think I'll let the pictures tell the story of the health clinic coming to fruition.

Love from Kenya,
Nyla

Little by Little

Posting by Nyla

Hello Friends of Mama Hope,

Last year I was brought to Pepo La Tumaini through a Safari center called Wilderness Trails who brings their guests here to understand the struggles and triumphs of the local people as part of their “Wilderness” program. Since it is tourist season many groups of tourists in safari vehicles have come here. They all come here fresh off the game trails in their shorts and big hats, cameras around their necks. They walk through here as if on a museum tour looking at the people as if they are in displays marked,“Orphans”, “AIDS Patients”, and “Malnourished Man”. I understand and sympathize with these feelings because I was once on this tour myself and its hard not to see things this way if you are just passing through. We get so desensitized by images of the devastation happening in Africa that even when it is in our faces we still tend to numb ourselves to it.

When I saw a safari vehicle roll up for the third time I asked if I could go around with the tourists and show them the health clinic being built and show them what is possible when you let an experience change you. I tried to stress to them that these people are simply in this type of poverty because they do not have access to the resources that we do. The best way to do our part to help people in need is to directly support their community based efforts by working in partnership with them to meet their goals on their terms.

As they were leaving one of the men told me that his daughter had come up to him after seeing the future health clinic and said “Dad, she really does not have anything to gain from building this clinic she is simply helping because she can!” I'm glad that they left with the feeling of what is possible when you do what you can. Doing what you can is such a simple concept that some times we forget when we focus on all that we can't do. Hopefully she will go back to her home and do what she can!

I know that obviously we can't solve all the world's problems but if we all did what we could, we'd be a lot closer.

Until next time,

Nyla

Mother Theresa of the Desert

Posting by Jordan

Greetings from the desert,

It's been a few days since my last entry but the days have been so
full of life, activity and emotion that it feels as if months have
passed. Although I've heard many a sad story during this short time,
and met many a struggling soul--stories and souls that seem to create
and define my own inner condition--i promised a more uplifting entry
this time around. So, I think I will attempt to describe our most
inspiring new friend: Khadija, the founder and director of Pepo la
Tumaini Jangwani (a wind of hope in the arid).

We have been truly privileged to spend so much time with the woman
referred to as "Mother Theresa of the Desert." Our film will do a
better job of capturing her qualities, but I hope to at least provide
a glimpse of the woman behind A Wind of Hope, since she is such a huge
part of our experience.

Just yesterday--while painting, chiseling bricks and filling the
foundation of our new clinic with heavy stones--the rains came, very
unusual for this time of year. It was bad timing. The Turkana women
had just arrived with a fresh truck-load of stones. Yet, there was
Khadija, propped on top of the truck, in the pouring rain, tossing
jagged stones while egging on the youth. "Benson!" She yells. "Get
over here!" He had been sheltering from the rain and was now caught.
As he sheepishly joined the dripping women and youth, Khadija sprung
after him, playfully swinging her arms as if to pummel him into
compliance. He smiled as he joined the other youth on the back of the
truck.

Later, while sitting under the veranda and watching the falling
rain, the sound of singing children reached my ears. I entered the
cold, cement room and found Khadija leading the children in a joyous
circle of song and dance. We joined them for a good while, until the
youth felt happy and re-energized, spirits lifted for a few more hours
of work.

Khadija cares for all as a mother cares for her children: leading by
example but quick to offer stern yet loving advice when needed, and
always with the highest hopes for her children. But being a mother of
so many carries it's weight: the pain and anguish of each HIV-positive
orphan, the hopelessness and despair of each starved and sickly
patient, the struggles and disappointments of each devoted staff member.
Yet, who else can lead them? Who else has her wisdom, her strength,
her experience, her ability to make both friends and strangers feel at
ease, to elicit ideas and consultation at a silent meeting, to bring
joyous laughter to a sullen group with her child-like humor, to lead
the exhausted children in dance and song after a long day's work?
Indeed, never before have I seen such a natural-born leader, with all
of the requisite qualities of love, empathy, compassion, humor,
confidence, wisdom and, most importantly, the ability to bring the
best out of all of us, and to inspire and encourage us all to reach
our potential. This is true leadership: inspiring and motivating by
love, friendship and example.

Until next time, hoping to share yet another brief glimpse-however
inadequate--of our incredible experience here in Isiolo.

The Basics

Posting by Bryce

The wind in Isiolo isn't a force of nature, it's a movement of human will. It rolls through the desert with all our intents...whether they wish harm, give hope or await for either.
On our third day at Pepo la Tumaini Jangwani we took part in a food distribution. Maize was given to some local tribes whose land was unfarmable due to lack of water. It was amazing to see how happy the people were to receive a few pounds of dry food. We soon learned that this experience was a precursor to a coming crisis. That same day UNICEF called a surprise security meeting
to inform Pepo of policy changes.
For the past two and a half years UNICEF has been providing food to over a thousand households through Pepo la Tumaini.
This constant supply has lead to a dependence on UNICEF. The policy change has dictated that the food be no longer supplied to those over five years of age. Hence, the food these people have depended on is gone.
To compound the problem, the Kenyan government has been giving out free AIDS medicine, which requires proper nutrition to work properly. Given the UNICEF support, Pepo la Tumaini put a large number of HIV/AIDS patients on the medicine. Now, with the pulling out of nutritional support, the majority of the patients will relapse causing an uncontainable amount of severe AIDS cases numbering in the thousands.
The looming crisis helped to remind us that we can only move forward if
our most basic needs are met. Having made relationships with the
people who will soon be left in the wind and its intents, I'm coming
to a realization. I have found the sense of injustice that fuels so many
documentary photographers.
I've heard the people of Isiolo referred to as the forgotten people.
Driving to their camps, I might have believed it. But when we saw how
they cared for each other and the positive change Pepo la Tumaini is
bringing, we realize that they have only been forgotten by the
affluent. We can so easily forget the trust that interpersonal
connection brings and the ease at which human dignity can be violated
by turning one another into statistics.
Over the past few days, I've come to understand the importance of
community based efforts. Only by being one of the people you are
helping do you understand their needs. The work at Pepo la Tumaini
Jangwani is both inspiring and heartbreaking. Everyday Khadija and
the other volunteers come to terms with the mortality of hope. And
everyday they find that moment of happiness from the people they help.
It's a moment that is just as meaningful as any report, but as
intangible as the wind.

Breaking Ground on Health Clinic

Posting by Nyla


Dear friends of Mama Hope,

I'm so happy to report that I've finally made it to Isiolo, Kenya and we have started construction on the The Stephanie Moore Health Clinic..
Things have been a whirlwind since we got here. Pretty much as soon as we arrived, we immediately attended a Health Clinic Commitee Meeting to discuss, budget, time frame, and design of the health clinic. The community was so excited and they wanted to start construction immediately so that the Health Clinic could be finished by the time I leave.
The next day was spent going to the different villages and inviting the people to a community meeting to discuss the community’s expectations for the health clinic. This was to ensure that the community would embrace and make this project their own. We were
surprised to learn that the communities are so dedicated to the building of the clinic that they walked from as far as 30 miles through the desert to attend the meeting.
The next morning the community meeting started normally enough until the women from the different villages started a marking ceremony. The ceremony consisted of them singing a song questioning each other where
the building should be and dancing over the area. In the beginning all
the different tribes were separated. As they made a decision they came
together as one whole group circling the area where the clinic should
be. It was incredible because the women's ceremony came up with the
same area for the building as the land surveyor. Fortunately Bryce,
our film maker, got the whole thing on tape and we will put it in the
documentary.

This morning I woke up to the sounds of commotion and came outside to
see women and trucks bringing in materials to start construction on
the clinic. By the time I made it to the site the people had already
dug out trenches of the outline of the clinic. Tomorrow we will
begin erecting the walls.
Thanks to Mama Hope donors, the people of Isiolo are going to have a
clinic that provides loving care to the community. If the community
keeps up the same kind of pace as they did today, the clinic will be
built in just a couple weeks and will be ready to serve patients. You
should be happy to know that your donations are improving the lives of
a whole community of deserving people in Kenya!
All the best from Kenya,
Nyla

Jambo from Jordan

Jambo! Sorry for having such a late first entry. I'm Jordan, research coordinator for Mama Hope. I've spent four days in Isiolo now – in the middle of the Kenyan desert – and it feels like every day is a lesson in life, relationships and compassion. On arrival, we had the joy of
meeting 20 or so orphans, all completely well-mannered and
inquisitive. We had a wonderful time chatting about Kenya, the U.S. and
their future careers. Selflessly, they all wanted to give back to the
community, as doctors, nurses, scientists and teachers.

Yet, the fun stopped when we learned that the vast majority of the
children are HIV-positive. Then, on the second or third day we began
visiting the HIV-positive adults. We met a new friend, Mambia, who was
in a very poor state: extremely skinny and barely able to get out of
bed. But, despite the sad physical condition, he still had a very
strong spirit and was to find the energy to slowly get out of bed and
share his story with us. Apparently, he was abandoned by his family and
left alone in a small, dilapidated little shack with neighbors who not
only ignore him but even threw rocks at his house when he first
arrived. The worst part, however, was how he got AIDS – not through
carelessness or addiction – but by being sodomized during tribal
conflict.

After visiting Mambia and another HIV-positive woman, Bryce and I felt
our energies were completely drained. Walking in silence, we were taken to the orphanage where the children were sharing a song with some American tourists: "am I just a number in your fax and files...","life is so cold and you need a friend...", "...life with HIV/AIDS..."

However difficult these first lessons were, we've also learned the
power of the simple things: playing a game with the orphans, sharing a
moment with a new friend, bringing some milk and sugar to Mambia. In
fact, after just a bit of food and medicine, we visited Mambia again
today and he was up and walking about, visibly improved after just 2
days. Although the situation is saddening, the spirit of the people
provides hope that things can improve.

Until next time, promising a more cheerful entry,
Jordan