The End is the Beginning

This blog is turning into a terrible death scene in one of those Old Westerns, we've been shot, its all over but we'll cough and splutter right up until the end.


I have recently finished being a VSO volunteer, I still have reports and an exit interview to complete. And I am not ending triumphantly, there is still lots to do which I can no longer take part in, I am thinking I could have done more, I could have done things differently, I worry that what little I have achieved may not last beyond the time I get on a plane.


But I have to remind myself, I'm not the hero of this story. VSO does a fine job in its recruitment making it all about the volunteer, telling people about the changes that volunteers make all over the world and they do make that change but they don't do it alone. VSO's motto for years has been "sharing skills, changing lives" and that always involves at least two people. So, the volunteer has to be the right person in the right place at the right time and they have to work with the right people in their right place in their right time. Its no wonder it doesn't work out all the time.


That's not to say I'm unhappy with the work that I have done, but I didn't feel like I got out of first gear very often and the frustration still stings (I'd be worried if it didn't). 


The work I have done, I am proud of: starting with  RAFODE, where the immediacy of the work  and the tangible impact was fantastic, and all credit to Ricky for making that happen to be honest.


Having the opportunity to chair the VSO Committee at a challenging time definitely made use of my softer skills. It was fantastic being able to bring in and work with all these highly skilled and enthusiastic VSO volunteers.


And here at KAIH, there have been ups and downs and staff changes but our Training of Trainers went so much better than expected. Going into the field and seeing people use their new skills was definitely a highlight of my placement.


Before I go, both Allys and I will spend a few days working at Il Ngwesi, which we are really looking forward to, you may have heard us mention their eco lodge once or twice. It'll be a nice way to say good bye to Kenya.


After that, we go home. Older, definitely. Wiser, maybe. 
And a new adventure begins...

So long and thanks for all the fish!

I almost thought my previous blog post would be my last but I couldn't go without a final word on the biggest topic of all: Kenya. I could still write for weeks about the country that has adopted us for the last year and a half but it isn't possible to say everything, and even if I did it wouldn't be the same as living and breathing it every day. So I'll just hope I can capture the confusing mix of emotions swirling around at the moment. 

It almost goes without saying that the main thing I am looking forward to back home is seeing our family and friends – just sitting down with a proper cup of tea and chatting face-to-face will be fantastic. On the other hand we have met so many awesome people here that have made our time special: having already said goodbye to many volunteer friends I know it is going to be tough leaving those who remain behind. 

Fun times with friends

I am excited to see the winding West Country lanes of home, smelling of leaf mulch and cut grass; can't wait to tuck into my first pint of cider; look forward to the easy-on-the-eye Georgian town house facades of Bath, Bristol and London. I will hugely miss the vast open spaces, big skies and sudden sunsets of the equator, where freedom and possibility seem limitless. 

Amboseli at dawn

I look forward to washing machines, dishwashers, chilled white wine served in a proper glass, meals served at a dining table, duvets and my mum's beloved cottage garden. I will miss eating choma with my fingers, washed down with Tusker-stoney shandies; will miss the genial handshakes and drunken diatribes of the locals in our neighbourhood pub; will miss “my” vegetable ladies, who sell the best fresh tomatoes, mini aubergines, coriander and limes on the street. 

I long to be shot of smog so thick you can cut it with a knife, pavements collapsing into potholes and drains, the terrifying hurtle of a matatu as it overtakes on a blind corner, the way every shower looks as if it might electrocute me. I will miss the hustlin' matatu touts directing gridlocked traffic better than any cop and manouvreing their beaten-up vehicles through the tiniest gap of pavement to keep our crazy city moving. I will miss hopping on the back of a piki-piki, helmetless, fingers crossed, but grinning ear-to-ear. 

Matatu mayhem

I look forward to not being hassled by street kids, leered over by creepy guys or having 'mzungu' yelled at me 20 times a day. I long for my anonymity and just to be able to walk down a street without attracting attention. I will miss the expectation that I will become involved in people's business – helping the matatu tout collect coins from other passengers, having someone else's child or parcel dropped unceremoniously on my lap when the bus is full. 

 I look forward to returning to a world where people share a similar outlook and I no longer need to explain myself at every turn or hold back key parts of my life. I am nervous that the way I speak English and the way I do things has been irrevocably 'Kenyanised' and that no one will understand when I want to be 'picked from the stage', 'take a cold soda' or have someone 'flash me'; worry that I will stand around waiting for someone to assist me in a shop rather than looking for what I want; will wonder why it's so hard to get a 'fundi' to just fix things for me. 

The confusing raft of emotions is all the more complex given my place here as white and British: simultaneously I am seen as a possible source of wealth and influence, and also as the despised ex-colonial master. I could live in Kenya 30 years and I would still be 'mzungu' – the outsider – and no amount of Swahili lessons or matatu rides will ever get me past that. At the same time I am a woman and so expected to step aside on a pavement, put up with slimy come-ons, and, if I will insist on leaving home without my husband, to take all that as a matter of course. It is a complex mixture of reverence, disdain, curiosity and sleaze that comes my way on the average Nairobi street. 

It is all too easy as a volunteer in Kenya to come to feel that others perceive you as a resource rather than a person: something to be co-opted, used, applied, to the absolute limits of my willingness. At the same time I am guiltily aware of the ease with which I can leave, the choices and chances I scatter so carelessly. When Kenyans ask me where I have traveled in Kenya and I list the places they often say, 'Wow! You know Kenya better than me.” I remain at heart the true 'mzungu' – roving and restless, taking what chances come my way as my due. 

And of course, those Kenyans are wrong. I may have traveled but I can never know Kenya as they do. There are so many aspects to this complex country, with its 40 plus tribes and languages, its feuds and corruption, its generosity and geniality, that remain opaque, just occasionally glimpsed, as if through the rush hour smog. All I can do is thank it for adopting me into its sometimes dysfunctional but always hearty embrace and for giving me a chance to see at least a little deeper than most. Kenya, I wish you well. 

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

Nairobi skyline

Closure

Last week I finished my VSO placement. It’s a strange feeling, not least because it’s been more of a whimper than a bang: a handful of unfinished tasks linger on, reports await review (indefinitely) and many more projects, ideas, enthusiasms and whims remain firmly parked at the wayside of inertia.

As part of my efforts to a) get some resolution and b) (hopefully) get a job in the next few months, I wrote a list of my achievements during my placement. I was pleasantly surprised by its solidity and feel confident it looks good on paper, even if I know that every firmly stated deliverable could, in reality, be caveated a dozen or more times.

Such, I fear, is the lot of the development worker. The ubiquitous reports scream: We got children into school! We gave a village clean drinking water! We stopped people killing each other! Never mentioning that the children have only one text book learned by rote, the well is three miles from the village and parents still sleep with a machete under the bed just-in-case.

Not that such cynicism means nothing is changing: I have done some useful things through my placement –for example, KAIH now has a stock of case studies and about ten people who know how to write more; it’s just that the successes are tiny increments, babies’ footprints, that could just as easily peter off as they could gather pace, gain strength and become a run.

With successes that are, if not meagre, then certainly fragile, my brain has turned to the other side of the coin. What have I learned? Not just about development work, Kenyan colleagues and meetings that make me want to stab forks in my legs to stay awake; what have I learned about life and well, you know… stuff? All that CV malarkey is fine and dandy, but what did I win?

1. Elephants and giraffes never cease to be awesome, no matter how many times you see them.

See? Awesome

2. Looking different from everyone else is hard. I understand much more why particular communities tend to congregate in certain areas – whether NGO expats in Nairobi, Brits on the Costa del Sol or Muslims in Bradford. It is natural and human to want to feel “normal” and inconspicuous, to miss foods from home, to want to speak to someone who will understand your cultural references – the nuances and touchstones of a shared language.

Spot the Mzungu. Not exactly 'Where's Wally?', is it?

3. British people are unfriendly. We put up barriers wherever we turn – class labels, i-pod headphones, newspapers, scowls, umbrellas, A-Zs. Kenyans think us mzungus are hilarious with our love of maps –‘ just ask someone the way’ their puzzled faces suggest. Why do we hate speaking to each other so much?

4. Canadians drink a lot. More than me. Really. They also like tattoos.

5. Having a society that questions authority is a good thing. Lippy teenagers, troublesome journalists and even grumpy old men complaining about their bin collections – all good for a society. The UK education system, believe it or not, is actually great at encouraging young people to interrogate, analyse and consider.

6. It is possible to have a handshake so hearty that it crushes bone. More than one Kenyan of my acquaintance has to be greeted with caution.

7. Good friends can change everything.

Me, Erin and Heather trying to dry our bums halfway up Mount Kenya. It rained solidly all day and could have been horrendous but my enduring memory is this moment, because it made us all laugh.

8. Growing up without loads of “stuff” isn’t the worst thing; the sad part is when you see people who can’t reach beyond the present moment because they have been let down so badly by their world that they have no sense of agency. Believing that one day you will be able to take charge, even just a little, is worth a parking lot full of Ferraris.

9. Contrarily, I have been reminded that I rather like nice things. Not the pointless nonsense peddled in the glossies (A recent Sunday Times corker: “What we love: luxury tees” For £165. WTF?). But just a little dash of quality puts a smile on my face. It matters to me that people have cared about how something is made; that they want it to last. A bottle of Chanel, a bed that doesn’t fall apart, a building someone has really designed: these things are about aspiration – in the best sense of the word - and I like that.

10. Hand washing jeans and  towels is really hard.

11. I enjoy being around people who are interested in how the world works and want to tinker with the mechanics. Shaking our heads over the news is not enough: complex problems deserve our attention and reward that attention tenfold.

12. There is nothing more alluring to a man than a pair of sturdy sandals and a dab of mosquito repellent behind each ear. At least that's the only reason I can come up with to explain why Eddie chose 2011 as the year to propose to me. Maybe I should seek confirmation on this one...

Cliché it may be, but I do believe that the experiences of the last 18 months have changed me for the better: made me tougher, more resilient, more sure of my judgment and instincts. I don’t believe they have made me kinder; my innate British cynicism remains much as it ever was and I have met at least as many con artists as I have saviours, as many bastards as I have warm friends, and I am not in the least surprised by that. But I have a lot of hope for the world and I, for one, plan to keep on trying to make things better.