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Published: February 21st 2009
Today is Saturday, Feb.21.
I wrote a 4 page single space word document to put onto my blog. To my great dissappointment, the power went out and I lost it. However, for now I'll post this entry I wrote in my journal. Just to preface what you can read below, I spent a week in Mombasa where I met people I will never forget. Their life stories will always remain in my mind. We had some time off from work before the groups got here last weekend. I wrote this entry late into the night, there is likely many grammatical mistakes, however you get the idea! I welcome any comments or questions you may have about it!
Date: Feb. 11th.
We arrived in Mombasa on Saturday after a very interesting drive on the bus…. So hot! The roads in the places were so bumpy I wasn’t sure if the bus was going to get there in one piece. The drivers stopped on the road to say “Hello” to each other and made many stops for people to get out wherever they wanted. We met two Canadian girls working for CIDA. We are stayed in Diani Beach at Kijiji Cottages. They were very nice. We had our own cook, cleaner and grocery getter. The place was gorgeous with perfect white sand, sparkling turquoise water and amazing sea creatures. The food was incredible: fresh fish, ripe fruit all of kinds, mangoes, pineapples, bananas and oranges. The weather was so hot and humid, the 40 SPF sunscreen just didn’t cut it. We went to the salt water pool outside our house or down to the beach. All the while being watched by monkeys in the trees. Those “cheeky little monkeys” as the British say, they are just waiting for you to drop a chip, a crumb or leave the door open so they can leap in and eat your food.
All of this was paradise to most however, for so many they want nothing more than to be far, far away. Why? Why would anyone not want to live here?
After talking with a few locals on the beach, I have come to learn of the “beach boys” daily lives. Each day they come to the beach, a trek from their home, they wait until the tourist wake up and start walking the beach. They see a young new group of tourist coming along. “This is great” they think, as they quickly approach. “Jambo! Caribou”, they say meaning “Hello! Welcome”. The group responds with a few words of Kiswahili. They immediately move into “business” mode and ask the group their names, while scribbling them down on paper and pen. They want to make key chains, and necklaces; they pull out all the items they have in their pockets. “Any price, tell me a price, looking is free”, they say, so hopeful and eager. The group replies, “No thank you, we are okay, nice to meet you”. They try again, however no luck. They try to sell a day sea safari. They want to show tourists all the creatures that are unknown to mzungos or white people. After several attempts, the group said they just want to walk the beach and get some pictures. The beach boys walk along with us enjoying conversation, however after seeing another group of tourists, they move on to try their luck on them.
The next day I went to the beach and meet three boys. After the initial greetings, I sat and talked with them. I learned about their lives, their situation, the state of Kenya, the government and their families. As the conversation continued, my mood, my heart and smile kept sinking.
They told me they were 24, 25 and 26 years old and that they work together like brothers. One has 4 younger brothers and siblings and mother to take care of. His father was killed when he was 12. He dropped out of school to find work. There are few to no jobs, no one will employ him because he didn’t finish primary school, nor could his mother afford to send him to high school let alone university. Tourism used to be an OK way to make money, but after the post election violence in 2008, no one is coming anymore. “The government is corrupt” he says, “they don’t take care of their people, it’s hard to work and be strong when we are hungry. My young brothers and sisters cry because of hunger. They look to me to get them food”. He continues to explain how it’s ok not to have money to buy clothes, eat in a restaurant or hang out with friends; he just wants to have money for food.
We arranged for them to take me on a sea safari, show me all the creatures that they can find in the ocean. As I walked away, they too started to walk up the beach; they kept looking back and smiling as they were so happy to have a small job to do the next day.
That morning I woke up in my comfortable bed, mosquito net draped over it, walk downstairs after using my bathroom with running water. I see that our house keeper has cut fresh fruit for us and we sit eating toast, fruit, and eggs for breakfast outside under the canopy with a fan keeping us cool. I make my way down to the beach. They are sitting, waiting for me. We walk the beach; walk far out to the coral reef. They show me many beautiful fish, sea animals, plants and creatures; the whole time being told of its purpose and how they learned everything from their grandfathers. Afterwards, I pay them for the tour and I go for lunch with the rest my group. I came back later that day to see them waiting, “no tourists today” they say. We talk again that day on the rocks learning more and more about their situation.
All of a sudden, one gets up, runs and hides behind a huge rock; a police man is coming. I asked why he was hiding and what is wrong? They told me that the police are corrupt and if they catch you and you don’t have a permit, they will ask for a bribe. However, if you don’t have money to pay them off they will take you to jail. There, friends and family can pay your bail, however if they do not have the money you can spend 3 to 4 months in jail. They continued to tell me how Kenyan jail is not like Canadian jail. You sleep on the urine covered floor, there are no beds, there is very little food and there are regular beatings. “That is why we run from the police” they say.
The policeman is there and says in Kiswahili that he saw him hiding and that he needs to come out. The boys are called over to the policeman. I stayed sitting on the rock not knowing what is going to happen. They returned to where I was sitting and I asked them what had happened. They told me that they paid the policeman the money I had given them so that he wouldn’t take any of them to jail on account of doing business without a permit. After a depressing conversation about the troubles they live on a daily basis, I walked away deeply saddened, wanting to cry but knew it wouldn’t do any good. Thinking about what I could do, the corruption in government and the police and how they could treat people that way.
How is it fair that they don’t have enough to eat, and that their survival depends on selling key chains? How is it fair that they don’t have an education? How is it fair that their eyes hurt from being in the bright sun everyday with no sunglasses or choice to stay inside? How is it fair that the police can bribe them for money and treat them so badly with no consequence? How is it fair that at a young age they are the soul providers of their siblings, or their unemployed, sick or dead parents? How is it fair that they feel better asking for money rather than stealing or selling their bodies for sex? How is it fair? How is it fair?
How is it fair that I am here in “paradise”? How is it fair that I’m educated, that I have a job, and have the idea that I can do and be anything, and go anywhere? How is it fair that I make money that doesn’t just go for food, but that I have money to buy clothes, eat at restaurants and spend however I choose? How is it fair that I come from a country that treats me with respect, gives me rights, freedoms and equality? Was it because I was born in Canada or because I am white? Why do I feel guilty for being who I am, what I have and the opportunity to do anything?
How is it fair? How is it fair? It is not….. it is not…. it is not fair.
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Kijo
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Beautiful Em...