Frustration & Inspiration in East Africa

For our last couple of nights in East Africa, J and I stayed at the Wildebeest Camp in Nairobi. Since we were winding down our trip, we decided for the sake of simplicity to have dinner at the communal table at Wildebeest rather than venturing into town. It was a good move, not only because the food turned out to be an excellent buffet of local dishes, but because it also gave us the opportunity to indulge in some wonderfully in-depth conversations with a couple of Dutch gentlemen about social issues in Africa and in our respective home countries.

One of the men, Hans, reflected on some of his personal experiences in Kenya throughout the years that I thought illustrated and paralleled the conflicting impressions of East Africa that I had developed during the trip:

Years ago, Hans had come to Kenya to volunteer as a teacher for two years. He spent his first year teaching in a government-owned school and his second in a community-run school. Recently, over twenty years later, he returned to those same schools for a visit to see how things had changed with the times.

When he visited the government-owned school he discovered that, well, they hadn’t. Even two decades later, the school was still a single room building; the students were using the exact same textbooks and wearing the exact same uniforms. Nothing had changed.

When he went to the other school, however, he was astounded to find a radically different place. The entire school had not only been renovated but expanded into a much larger building. The school had flourished, and consequently, so had some of the students who passed through its corridors. Entire classes of students had graduated, and moved on to bigger and better things.

As I traveled through East Africa, I felt my emotions fluctuating dramatically and constantly, deep periods of frustration punctuated by raging torrents of hope.

It was hard not to feel despair and frustration when we were consistently glorified by children who viewed us as dispensaries for money, toys, and food- “others” to be relied upon for things that their families and country couldn’t provide enough of. It was hard to be victimized by those who felt like victims themselves. It was hard to drive by massive slums only to find their square footage dwarfed by the sheer number of people living in them. It was hard to hear stories from westerners who had tried to help, whether with money or sheer elbow grease, only to come out of it feeling that the locals felt entitled to the help but didn’t necessarily want to contribute to improvements in their own welfare.

It was hard to absorb story after story about people dying from AIDS or malaria faster than clinics were being built. It was hard to accept that a life expectancy of under 60, and in some countries under 50, isn’t a miscalculation. And then you realize how it’s possible that even if unemployment is a “mere” 40%, locals might think that it’s 70%. And why some people have stopped believing that the ability to change lies within themselves. And I understood why my life was their idea of heaven, even if they knew nothing about my life at all.

In many ways, things are as bad as I had heard they’d be. And much worse. I hate when negative stereotypes are proven true, even in the slightest.

But then. But then, I noticed again and again, that off the dusty roads riddled with potholes, and next to the slums, and within the slums themselves, there were signs of change and signs of effort, more signs than I’ve ever seen anywhere else on Earth. Signs for projects bringing sanitary water to an entire village. Signs for new schools or community houses. Signs for technology projects to provide kids with computers and the training to use them. Literal and figurative signs everywhere.

And people, so many people with stories of strife and ultimately, success.

There was the woman on my safari group tour, a yoga instructor, who came to Kenya for the first time years ago and decided to sponsor and help see through a project that provided a village of 38,000 people with clean, running water.

There was the volunteer home in Arusha, founded by an Australian woman still in her 20s, who came to Africa and decided to recruit others to help transform the local community through volunteerism.

There was the man we met in Kioga who organized and led cultural tours through his village, putting all of the money earned directly into a treasury for community development.

There were the people in Kibera, the second largest slum in Africa, who set up an innovative project to buy throwaway bones from local slaughterhouses to craft into jewelry and consequently, provide apprenticeships and jobs for dozens of youth.
 Victorious Youth’s workshop
Beads by the folks at Victorious Youth Bone Jewelry (click here to see their Facebook page!)

And there was the teenager in Kibera who told me that the only thing he wanted me to share with people back home is that not everyone in the slums are hoodlums, that they’re trying their best just like everyone else.

And I felt inspired. I learned that fear does not negate hope or effort. That I can change my destiny if the current picture on the horizon isn’t what I’m aiming for. I was reminded that small things, accomplished slowly and painstakingly, can create an enormous impact, on myself and on others. I learned that great things aren’t done by extraordinary people; people must choose to do extraordinary things. And I can be one of those people, too.