Inflation

Just going away for our summer leave and as I pay out salaries a little early, have been hit with the usual last minute loan requests.

I got my max possible daily cash allowance from the bank over the last two days and its not even enough! The two ladies who work in our house want more than 350 pounds each!  Hands are shaking!

The tragedy is that its for clothes, food etc. for extended family up-country - hardly just to blow on crazy expenditure, parties, shoes...la la la.

My husband says 'set a limit and stick to it.' 

I said, 'I feel like a bank....except more like one of those struggling ones in the US or the UK.....'

As usual it's the nagging feeling - Time to downsize or get a job!

Barney's Centre - Special needs school

Barney's Centre

I have been procrastinating for a week before writing this. I don’t really know why. Perhaps it is because it’s a complex and emotional problem as usual and the way I see it there’s no obvious answer. But anyway, not writing anything is unforgivable.

Early last week I went to see a centre for children with special needs set up by a Kenyan teacher I know called Beatrice. Beatrice gave it the rather slick name ‘The Barney’s Centre’, but this name belies the reality of the place. The home or day care centre is located somewhere way out on the Thika Road, past Kasarani Stadium, past Safari Park Hotel, basically in a fairly run down area. Put it this way, driving my car in there was interesting.

Beatrice is one of the teachers in the kindergarten that our youngest daughter goes to. She set up Barney’s school/centre one year ago with three friends; all were adult students studying children with disabilities of varying degrees. Over this past year, the three friends have all dropped out of the project one by one. Even though Beatrice has her own children, she spends all her holidays and free time at the centre helping out.

I’ve known Beatrice for ages but some time before last Christmas she collared me about her special needs school and asked for food donations.

‘Some of the mothers are pretty desperate,’ she said. ‘We like to feed the kids and the mothers where possible, at least one meal a day.’

I said, ‘tell all the kindergarten parents about this, write a note, parents will be sure to chip in once they know what you’re doing!’

However, the food whip round bombed and most people forgot. (I think I wrote about this).

Beatrice resorted to targeting only those kindergarten parents who had stopped to listen for more than a second.

‘What I’m doing now is asking a few of you to bring in a specific food each month. Like rice, sugar tea. I know, you can buy dry beans.’

‘Fine.’ I said. (except I am just as guilty as everyone else. Sometimes I forget about the beans, then have to make rushed trips to Nakumatt to buy the chick peas, lentils and beans at the last minute).

At the end of the school term, Beatrice collared me again.

‘Come and see us at Barney’s and see what we are all about.’

I agreed but was dreading it. I knew it would take over an hour to get to the place, then it would be hot when I got there and of course, it would be harrowing. Fortunately there was another mum who I don’t know well, who Beatrice had also arm-twisted to come, so I drove both of us and we went together.

After a couple of wrong turns, Beatrice talked us into the depths of then met us at a random railway track then hopped in the car to show us where to go.

In fact the Barney’s centre was a bright little place. She had rented a row of six rooms (6,000 shillings per month) and there was a sizeable yard or open area in front. There was a space for preparing food (Beatrice does get end of market, fresh vegetables donated each week), a treatment room and a room for a couple of house mothers and some children to stay the night. However, it’s still cramped. There are public loos next door so there’s a big problem with flies. Plus the landlady is keen to rent the plot out to more commercial tenants, even use the yard to build more units.

‘At the moment we have around 18 kids coming in,’ Beatrice explained, ‘some of them live far and it’s hard for the mum’s to carry them from home to here and back again in one day.’ (I hadn’t thought of that – some are over 12 years old, some 15.)

Over the next couple of hours we met the children and some of their mothers. Some children were more handicapped than others. There was a fifteen year old girl who stays propped up in a chair almost all day, a Sudanese child who was severely thin with twisted limbs in splints donated by UNHCR (because he is a refugee – UNHCR don’t help anyone else in the home). Then others that were mobile but were mentally disabled, one down syndrome child.

We also met Stanley who is the physiotherapist and should come in to the centre 5 days a week, but they can only afford to have him come in for three and even then they struggle to pay him on a regular basis. The idea is that the Mums pay some school fees to contribute but many cannot or do not.

Stanley

When I met the mums, they said immediately, ‘will you sponsor my child?’

Beatrice had warned us that this would be their approach. The mothers told us how hard it was to mother a child with special needs, how the fathers were either absent or refused to pay school fees for a child with difficulties. How they could not get out to work because their children needed so much care. How their disabled children were constantly sick and needed expensive medication all the time.

Interestingly, because the Barney’s Centre opened around a year ago, many of the mothers that day were carrying new babies. Beatrice explained that their new found freedom after many years meant that they decided they were ready to have another child.

I said to the Mums, ‘We’re here to help the Barney’s centre not individuals – that way you all get help.’

Perhaps the mums knew about empty promises.

The Mums

Beatrice said later that one father had managed to get private sponsorship for his child. He came in with a cheque made out to the Barneys centre then demanded Beatrice refund him 50% cash. She refused so he took his child out of the school. No win situation.

Beatrice, with the best will in the world, is drowning under the responsibility of it all. She saw a need, set up a school, is helping the community hugely – but it’s unsustainable.

‘I wish I could just come in and be with the kids and not worry about the rent, salaries, the mother’s problems.’

Beatrice

A heroic fundraise spearheaded by another teacher at the kindergarten (without hauling in the parents), raised enough money to buy a patch of land for the Barney’s centre. All they need now is funding for buildings.....

What I don’t understand is when all this Aid money pours into Kenya, why a big organisation or NGO like Care, Oxfam, Dfid – somebody! – can’t step in and take the Barney’s Centre under their wing and take care of the running costs. Anybody out there?

Barney’s is an excellent project Kenyan run and set up – right now it’s just doomed to fail unless poor Beatrice is thrown a lifeline. What’s needed is not odd donations here and there but proper administration. Please, if you have any ideas, let me know!!!

Africans don't rate Bob Geldof so why should we?

Interesting article....

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/music/7893011/Africans-dont-rate-Bob-Geldof-so-why-should-we.html

The birthday party

I think I have just about recovered from the ordeal of my daughter’s birthday last Saturday, though I’m not sure. As usual she shared her birthday party with her best friend who has nearly the same birthday and fortunately lives next door. Being the controlling type, I was happy to host the event.

I knew that holding a party on the first weekend after the end of term might be problematic as so many people travel during the holidays, so I got the invitations out nice and early and for once and booked the magic show and bouncy castle well in advance. In my rush of being organised, I plumped for the best the supermarket had to offer, ‘pirate’ invitations.

After a week I’d received not a single response and nor had the mother who was sharing the party. Perhaps the pirate invitations for a girl’s birthday party had put the children off? At the Kindergarten end-of-year play I raced around as many mothers as I could to ask if they were coming.

‘Sorry, we can’t come, we’re away then – I never got around to replying to you.’

‘Sorry, we’ve got three invitations for that day already and can’t decide on which to come to.’

The situation got increasingly desperate as I’d got at least ten no’s and there are only fourteen in the class!

I drew in my breath. My friend said,

‘It doesn’t matter. A small party could be nice.’

My next problem was the cake. We have a Woman’s Weekly birthday cake book at home (curse that book!) and it’s my youngest daughter’s favourite. Over the past year she has spent simply hours poring over it, choosing her birthday cake.

‘I want a number 5 Mummy and I want it to be just like in the picture.’

I set out in search of a cake tin with a hole in it and miraculously found one. The only problem was that it was huge. I hinted to the fellow birthday-party-sharing Mum that I was pushing the boat out on the cake, but she was unfazed.

‘I’m afraid I’m doing a no. 5.’ I said.

‘My daughter just wants a chocolate one, with berries on.’ She replied.

‘fine.’

Since there weren’t going to be many kids at the party, we decided on fairy cake decorating, party bag painting activities and a proper meal for all of them, shepherd’s pie. Meanwhile I was busy texting the only parents willing to come, saying ‘bring siblings!!’

The birthday arrived. My husband had dashed out to buy our daughter a bike – which always gets a mixed reaction from my girls. He put balloons all over it and led her into the play room blindfold.

‘Ta-daa!’ he said.

‘Oh’ she said flatly, not hiding her disappointment.

(However, she did, days later, say that her bike was her best present – so it was not all disaster).

Meanwhile, my entire focus that morning was on the cake. A gallon of icing and a entire shopping cart of sweets was being piled on. The birthday girl cried because she wanted to see it but wasn't allowed in the kitchen.

‘It’s not ready yet.’ I said.

Next one or two guests dribbled in.

‘Go and change!’ I pleaded with the birthday girl.

‘No.’

‘But your clothes are filthy!’

She went upstairs and pulled a heavy drawer right out onto her foot. More tears.

For a long time there was only one boy, but finally others arrived (one single one dressed as a pirate). By four, the afternoon was going okay. We did the party bag/hat painting, fairy cake decorating, bouncing, magic. Finally it was cake time. The contrast between the huge 5 cake and the small, round chocolate one was embarrassing to say the least. Mortifying is a better word. I placed a chair for each child to stand on at the table so they could blow their candles out. (Afterall – I wanted my daughter to at least see the cake after all that work!) but vanity was my downfall.

‘They’ll fall off those’ my husband said helpfully, but didn’t offer an alternative.

Sure enough, my daughter falls off the chair almost immediately, cracks her chin deafeningly on the side of the table – then my husband scoops the crying child up in his arms and shouts at me,

‘I told you that would happen.....you are such an ....!’

All in front of assembled, horrified mothers. After checking our daughter had not bitten through her tongue or anything awful, I flushed pink. I could have died there and then.

On the upside, at least there were not too many mothers there to die in front of, but enough.  After long talks with my husband about loyalty and rowing in public, I think I’m over it now. So far this week my remorseful other half has bought me flowers and a new (second hand) bike.  My reaction to it was not unlike my daughter’s, 'Oh'.

My middle daughter tried to console me.  'Don't worry Mummy, all my birthdays have been disasters.'

'What!'

I think that next year we might skip childrens birthday parties and I'll suggest a cinema trip instead.

The Kenyan Kikoy/Kikoi

Well, like everyone else, have just survived the last week of the school term with the seemingly endless round of concerts, speech days, gifts to source for teachers and birthday parties.

The week before this last crazy one, I took a very decadent day trip to Mombasa to help my very good friend buy stock for her shop in Central Africa.  She has spent years in East Africa, so knows what she's doing and says that in oil rich Gabon, where she now lives, there is simply nothing locally available to buy, so stock simply flies off the shelves. 

Our girls trip was great fun  - mainly because it was a chance to catch up properly without children and the normal distractions, but I don't envy her the gift shop lark.  From what I've seen and heard, the gift shop business is actually quite cut throat and these businesses are more often than not run by unscrupulous, scary women!  My friend has plenty of stories of 'spies' scribbling down her prices and rivals poaching staff and suppliers.  However, it was really interesting to go on a local shopping trip with somebody who is able to see the wider commercial appeal of Kenya made goods.

I normally get dazzled by choice in markets and shops, then when I buy a kikoy or kanga (especially when they are intended to be gifts) I fall in love with the things and can't bear to part with them.  Kikoys and kangas wash well, retain their colour and the fabric softens over time.  Inexpensive local jewellery (specifically the recyled magasine paper necklaces) look exotic abroad and I know that my sister-in-law got accosted on a Cornwall beach by strangers wishing to know where she got her colourful kikoy towels from.  Who can blame them, they are so pretty!

The concept is this:

But the reality is this:

Actually, let's face it, it's this:

Who am I kidding, it's really like this:

Cost of a kikoy on Biashara Street, Mombasa is 300 shillings (it's recently gone up from 260/-).  Thats around £2.75.  Kikoy.com website: price £24.95 (that's around 3,000/-).  A kikoy towel costs 700/- (up from 600/-).  Cost on Kikoy.com: £34.95 (3,800/-)

I love the local shopping experience though.  As well as paying more, if you buy online you don't get to climb the rickety steel ladder leading up into the roof storage (fearing for your life all the while), you don't get to meet the kind shop assistant who holds the ladder and patiently catches bundles of kikoys as you throw them down.  You can't hear the hum of sewing machines, or taste the dust, or the spice tea served in small glasses, or watch the Masai coming in and out to buy shukas, and swerve coming into the shop beggars looking for coins.  Oh and the potholed road outside, puddles, dirt, ladies in niqab veils out shopping, street hawkers covering parked cars with goods for sale, hand carts whistling by, noise, smells, hustle and bustle, shouting.  It's just not the same.

I now have a shelf full of candy striped kikoys and kikoy towels that I just want to keep, not give away.  It's hopeless.

Read more about our Mombasa shopping trip here:
http://www.home.co.ke/index.php/african-expat/116-columns/263-my-love-affair-with-the-kikoi

That day my friend and I also found the wholesale/producer of Aspiga leather sandals among other things ..... but that's another story.. Not going to tell you all my secrets am I?!  But then again, what's it worth?

What's going on?

The political soap opera in Kenya has taken some exciting turns in previous weeks and I am sorry that I failed to blog about them.  Here's a post to make up for lost time:

1.  Prime minister Raila Odinga was hospitalized last Tuesday.  Apparently he was suffering from persistant headaches.  A CT scan revealed he had a haematoma on his head.  He remembered that some time before he had banged his head on the inside of his car causing the bump.   By the end of the week he was photographed well again but in hospital wearing a shower cap.  He was discharged on Sunday and was photographed again, wearing a hat (this time one of his funny flat caps).  The rumour mill has it that the scar is fairly large and might shock us, though apparently he has made a full recovery from the minor surgery.

2.  While the Prime Minister was in hospital, Kenyan MPs quickly voted to vastly increase their salaries to a whopping 1.2million shillings per month (including allowances).  The snakes.  This would make them amongst the most well paid MPs in the world - to say nothing of their number - there are currently  222 MPs in this coalition government. 

Fortunately there was an immediate outcry by Civil Society and the public and by Friday, Finance Minister Uhuru Kenyatta pointed out that there's actually no money in the pot for these increases.  On leaving hospital, Raila Odinga also called the pay hikes unfair. 

3.  The stage is set for an August 4th referendum on the new constitution.  President Kibaki and Prime Minister Raila Odinga are on the 'yes' side of the campaign, while the 'no' side is led by William Ruto.  In spite of initial hopes, the campaigns have got ugly and political with a 2012 election in sharp focus for many of the politicians. 

A couple of weeks ago, the detonating of grenades in a large church/prayer meeting in Uhuru Park caused some deaths and multiple casualties.  In addition, 2 MPs and a junior minister on the 'no' side were arrested and brought before the courts for peddling 'hate' speech, ie manipulating rural communities by using tribe in their arguments to persuade the public to vote no.  I hope that this scares politicians to pull their socks up and use clean tactics in their campaigns.

4. In an attempt to control crime and monitor hate speech/incitement etc.  all pre-pay sim cards in Kenya must now be registered by 30th July. (must get around to taking mine along).  It's particularly relevant to the serial killer case that has had Kenyans gripped. A young, good looking man in his thirties who was killing victims to 'drink their blood' was finally tracked down and arrested due to a traceable mobile phone trail of SMS messages.

At home:
Last week I was cooking fillet steak for supper (it's surprisingly cheap here), the delicious smells were wafting from the kitchen after dark, when the night watchman banged on the window right above the cooker to ask for more sugar.  It happens all the time but, as usual, I got the fright of my life.  Having to employ night security guards is the thing I hate most about living here.  The injustice of somebody having to patrol outside out house all night while we sleep cosy in our beds (and it's pretty cold here in Nairobi now), pricks my concience all the time.  It's terrible, but unavoidable it seems.

The response on this blog to the aid to Africa debate has been fascinating.

One interesting issue that emerged from the comments was the concept that, historically, whites living in Africa have set themselves up as 'little Gods', ie. better than everybody else.

A reader sent me the link to this interesting article by Rasna Warah in yesterday's Nation newspaper (see previous comments).  Here Rasna points out how harmful the persistant circulation of pictures or photographs of starving or dying Africans is in the West.  She says that you wouldn't see dying US soldiers or dying white people in photographs and she wishes that 'Time' photographers would just leave off their cheap, emotion fuelled tricks to draw readers. 

I am ashamed to say that when I moved to East Africa 11 years ago, my naive preconceptions of Africa were shaped entirely by Live Aid footage of famine in Ethiopia.   Skeletal children with flies in their noses.  When we arrived in Zanzibar I was very surpised, almost shocked, to find that the landscape was lush and tropical plus the Zanzibaris in local villages looked well, were flourishing and above all were happily going about their business!  As I said, I was very naive.

I still have high hopes that South Africa hosting the 2010 World Cup has adjusted the world view of Africa a little, with any luck, casting it in a more positive light.

http://www.nation.co.ke/oped/Opinion/Images%20of%20the%20Dying%20African%20border%20on%20pornography/-/440808/952042/-/gcvyrqz/-/index.html


Meanwhile, the UK/Sunday Telegraph carried an interesting article on Dfid yesterday.   Read it and weep.

'A study carried out by the Department for International Development (DFID) found that a quarter of its projects do not "achieve" or even "largely achieve" their aims – even by the assessment of staff involved in the schemes.'

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/7870261/Overseas-aid-projects-miss-their-targets-DFID-study-finds.html