Turning up in Turkana



Turning up in Turkana

By Fionn Rogan

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O marks Nakwamoru village in

Turkana which I visited.

A trip to Kenya had been in my mind for some time. The chance to see one of the most diverse countries in Africa was enticing and filled with possibility. I also wanted to visit an old college buddy who had moved to Kenya and was working as a teacher. Finally July 2004 was set as the date for departure. My first destination was to be the Don Bosco Salesian School in Nairobi.

Shortly before departing from Ireland, an opportunity arose to visit a small village called Nakwamoru somewhere in Northwest Kenya. This region was largely a harsh, dry desert. Nakwamoru had been set-up by a local tribe in the 1960’s with the involvement of Gorta and Irish foreign Missionaries. Ensuing local humanitarian projects had focused on health, basic education and irrigation. In much more recent times Intel Ireland had come on the scene in order to sponsor further development of the local education and health facilities. Mike Cunningham was the project leader of this effort within Intel. Following short discussions before leaving we agreed that I would try and visit Nakwamoru whilst in Kenya.

In Nairobi

For my first few days in Kenya I got acquainted with African suburban life in the environs of Nairobi. The neighbourhood I was in was Karen and had formerly been a large coffee plantation owned and run by the subsequent writer Karen Blixen. Her memoirs “Out of Africa” were based on her life in the area. She is remembered locally for her kindness and humanity and her name has been preserved as the area’s address. Today it is mostly a white suburb and has built up a lot of wealth in the form of imposing mansions. Competing for space with these large villas are many new and hefty churches. I noticed that those driving between the mansions always did so with a grimace and a frown but it was the local Africans who generally walked to their church and always emerged with an invigorated and joyful demeanour.

I made a few trips into the city centre of Nairobi and reacquainted myself with what I knew about Kenya. It sits on both sides of the equator and its shoreline runs for 536km along the East African coast. Its 583,000 square kilometres of land encompasses much diversity. By the sea are idyllic beaches and coral reefs, the grassy highlands of the Great Rift Valley dominate Kenya’s interior, in the west are lush plateaus with fertile farmland and there is an expansive area of dry bush and desert in the North.

Kenya has always had dramatic geography but before the arrival of the Europeans in the 15th century it was sparsely populated and quite undisturbed. Africa as a whole had a small number of culturally complex kingdoms but it was mostly inhabited by large numbers of nomadic tribes. In 1498 Vasco de Gama arrived on the East African coast from Portugal via the Cape of Good Hope. He based himself in Zanzibar and Mombassa and began trading with the locals. While buying up many different spices and enjoying the balmy climate he spread the Catholic Church’s power and influence. This encouraged many other colonialist nations to do the same and in turn the Persian Muslims, the Dutch and the English came, saw and conquered Kenya. Through tough bargaining with local tribal leaders they organised many of locals into a vast labour force which were used to build huge railways and roads and work vast farms and coffee plantations. Hundreds of years later the idea of a nation was introduced to Africa and borders were designated all over the continent. “Kenya” as we know it today was born.

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All the while, my plans to visit Nakwamoru in Northwest Kenya were coming together. Although Nairobi and Nakwamoru are alphabetically very close together, travelling by road puts them at two days journey apart. A Kenyan based Irish priest had confirmed to bring me to Nakwamoru once I had made it to Kitale near the Ugandan border. Kitale is in west Kenya but I still had a very vague idea of where Nakwamoru was. Northwest Kenya was still the most specific description of my final destination; I knew West Kenya to be safe to travel in but North Kenya was meant to be dangerous and wild.

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The Outward Journey

The long road trip started due West from Nairobi on board a little, twenty-five seater but trusty Akamba bus. This old bone shaker was to transport me 250 miles across the spectacular Great Rift Valley all the way to Kitale. It was an enduring and exhausting trip. Despite Kenya being eight times larger than Ireland, it has eleven times less mileage of paved roads. Most of the ones we travelled on were in an awful condition. Although the pot-holes were moderately sized they were consistently everywhere and the bus sustained a constant bumping chatter all the way to Kitale. The roads had originally been poorly built and in a short number of years were destroyed by an unregulated road haulage industry that often dangerously overloaded its vehicles.

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Sitting on the sunny side of the bus I gazed out the window. All around me was the most majestic and astonishing landscape I had ever seen. It took great mental effort to comprehend the scale of the land and the activity keep me occupied for much of the journey. The bus trickled up steep ascents, sputtered along bumpy plateaus and hurtled down into deep valleys. The highest point of the route, over 3000 metres, afforded a magnificent view of the Great Rift Valley. All around the land rushed out in a sweep of endless grassy plains. An occasional tree and bush featured in the scene as did some flamingo framed lakes. The constant high altitude reminded me of the advantage conferred on the Kenyan long distance runners.

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The bus driver was familiar with their tactics and he typically responded by driving off when all his own passengers had moved on and off the bus. This forced many sellers to have to leap dangerously in order to leave the moving vehicle.

As the little Akamba travelled further west and nearer the war torn borders with Uganda and Sudan the number of road blocks increased. Thousands of refugees still cross into Kenya every year and the authorities have their hands full trying to deal with the situation. On one occasion a heavily armed policeman boarded the bus to look around. Nothing save the sound of his heavy breathing and footsteps was heard while he sniffed around peering at everyone. Nobody was questioned and the bus moved on again.

In the early evening, almost nine hours after leaving Nairobi little Akamba arrived into Kitale, its final stop before returning to Nairobi. Kitale is a small and lush highland town. Looking around I saw many local farmers doing business. The surrounding area was fertile and well tilled. Many of the farmers from all around the vicinity had come into the town to haggle and do business. Most visitors to Kitale either worked with a local humanitarian project or passed through on the way to Mt Elgon, Kenya’s second highest mountain. I also was passing through, but first I had to meet my contact, Father John O’Callaghan.

The remote location of Kitale made me quite concerned about how I would meet Father John. I had no map and he had told me to look out for a white pickup truck. However, every man who was worth anything had a white pickup truck. There was a sea of them. My strain was short-lived. Even before getting off the bus I had spotted Father John. He was noticeably the only other white man in the town and he also identified me with equal ease. In the end it was the whiteness of our skin and not the pickup truck that did the recognition work. We shook hands.

“You must Fionn”

“…and you must be Father John”

The strong Limerick accent was both incongruous and reassuring. He introduced me to his other passengers, locals also travelling to Nakwamoru.

“Are you hungry or would you like to keep moving?”

“No, I’m fine. Let’s get going”

We drove out of town. Undertaking the entire journey from Nairobi to Nakwamoru in a single day was something my stamina hadn’t anticipated. A further 200 miles would be completed that evening and I swallowed hard at the prospect. Meeting Father John meant I was able to learn exactly where I was going; Turkana in North Kenya he told me. “Oh dear” I thought to myself. This was the hostile territory known to be rough and crowded with bandits. I was definitely going there now and well past the point of no return. Our final destination was down in the Turkana desert valley way up in the very North of Kenya. To get there we had to cross up through the high Cherangani Hills of West Pokot.

En-route I got to know the shy, courageous and warm hearted Father John. As we travelled over many poor roads he recounted stories about his life of thirty years in Turkana. Altercations with bandits, flash floods, hostile elephants and broken down vehicles were all frequent. Some of the bridges the road crossed over were very makeshift. They had been swept away in flash floods and Father John told me how a mission in the area had lost a priest and some locals to such an accident a number of years ago.

While coming out of the hills and down into the valley the countryside and local behaviour became wilder. Along this route we saw a car carrying four men in the boot. They were mostly tucked inside but their legs were swinging freely out on the bumper. The

abundance of vegetation and greenery subsided to just spokey acacia trees and dusty bush.

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The condition of the road was very changeable. Occasional twenty km stretches of pot hole free roads interrupted the routine bumpy broken norm. These sections were invariably the donation of a foreign country. France, Spain and Israel had all built roads in the area. These were often constructed on the foot of another bigger project where the heavy construction would be too much for local roads. To preserve the good gesture of the project most countries rebuilt the damaged roads. The exclusively Kenyan roads were appalling. We often found it easier to drive in the dusty hard shoulder rather than in the potholed remains of the road. On other occasions we had to drive straight down the middle to avoid the encroaching bush and shrubbery. In general there was a complete lack of maintenance on the roads and their lifetime was very short as a result.

While close to our journey’s end we stopped in for a visit to a local mission at Kainuk. We arrived out of the dark back roads into an equally dark missionary house. Father Patrick was home alone and completely without electricity. Nonetheless he welcomed us into his home and by the light of a single torch we savoured a cup of tea. Back outside we rejoined the road and continued onto our destination.

Welcome to Nakwamoru

We arrived into Nakwamoru at just after 930pm. Although arriving at night and somewhat un-expected the greeting I received was enthusiastic and kind-hearted. Sister Rosetta from Wexford, Ashi a young pastoral priest from Nigeria and Father Evans a recently ordained priest from Turkana all welcomed me to their village. I was ravenous with hunger and they speedily fed me a generous meal of meat and two veg - already the Irish influence was apparent. I was also completely exhausted having been travelling constantly by road since 6am that morning. The day had long since accumulated into a heavy weight of fatigue and I was eager to get rest. Father John showed me to my room and with little heed to my surroundings, I crashed out under a mosquito net into a heavy sleep.

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I shuffled out to do some morning ablutions. The shower trickled out water and gave some small refreshment. Outside in the kitchen I was greeted by Father John and given a type of porridge. I was told it was called ugale and was the stable diet of the region. While slowly consuming breakfast Ashi, the talkative and charming Nigerian came in and greeted me.

“Good morning comrade, did you sleep well?”

“Yes” I said. “I feel like I’ve slept for everyone else in the house”

Ashi asked a bit more about why I had come to visit. I then asked him about Nakwamoru and Turkana and he went to tell me in great detail. To be in Africa, Kenya and Turkana were three distinct things. Africa has for thousands for years been mostly inhabited by nomadic tribes. Wandering the land they have moved according to the rains and the migratory movement of their animals over wide and vast territories. This is unlike settled Europe which is divided up much more by geography and political history. Many Africans still think of themselves firstly as belonging to a particular tribe before mentioning their nation state. Each tribe has its own customs, language and way of life which they still respect and sometimes adhere to. Following the scramble for Africa in the 18th and 19th century by European colonialists and the subsequent mass independence movement during the 1960’s much of Africa was sliced and cut up into new and artificial borders. Many of these straight lines did not recognize of the local terrain and tribal makeup. This combined with limited resources and subsequent high levels of corruption led to many bloody conflicts on the continent of Africa.

The Turkana are a Nilotic tribe. They migrated out of the Sudanese desert a few thousand years ago and came into the Turkana valley which now bears their name. The language they speak as become known as Turkana. I was to learn that this cross-naming is a feature of most African tribes. The desert of Turkana is a desolate and barren place. It is 70,000 square km in size which is exactly the same size as Ireland. The population is estimated at between 200,000 and 300,000 people, approximately 1% of Kenya’s total population but they are still the third largest tribe in Kenya. There are forty two other tribes alive today in Kenya. Turkana justifiably holds the title of the Cradle of Mankind ever since some of the earliest fossil remains of homo-sapiens ancestors were found here. Turkana boy is a 1.6 million year old fossil and was found near Lake Turkana in 1984. It is one of the earliest fossil remains of a hominoid human ancestor ever to have been unearthed. In addition, scientists recently completed DNA test on the Turkana people and announced them to be the oldest living society of humans in existence. Despite the ancient legacies that scientists and many others are aware of, the Turkana people remain mostly oblivious. They are largely uneducated and unaware both of their pre-historic timeline and the outside modern world. External society has entered their lives at various times and at strange junctions. There is a legend circulating amongst some Turkanas that their tribe is descended from Alexander the Great.

They are by and large still a nomadic people and for most of their history have wandered the land following the rains and herding cattle. Due to the barren geography of the Turkana valley and desert no colonialists have ever attempted to rule or even trade with them. Europeans only reached Lake Turkana in 1888. Count Samuel Telek Von Szek from Transylvania took one look at the land and promptly turned around to go straight home. The Turkana are one of the few Kenyan tribes to have had so little to do with the developed world. This isolation underwent a crisis in the 1960s.

Following an extended period of drought, famine and warfare the newly created Kenyan government and the UN got together to invest in a future for the Turkana people. A program of school and road building got under way. This focused on the area around the Turkana River. As more and more schools were built many religious aid agencies arrived to help with teachers in the schools. The aid agencies were often religious and would normally build a local church or mosque in order to enlarge their flock. This was often accepted with enthusiasm by the locals and the bible has since been translated into Turkana. Irish missionaries and Gorta arrived on the scene at this point. They helped found Nakwamoru and named it after some local white rocks. The mission consisted of St Patrick’s Priests Order who ran a primary school while the Medical Missionaries of Mary set up a health unit. Water was provided by irrigating the nearby Turkwell River and electricity by solar power.

The village of Nakwamoru itself lies at the mouth of the wide yawning valley of Turkana. As the valley widens and flattens out the bush quickly diminishes to a point where it becomes a complete desert. The night before, I had traced the route of the Turkwell River while travelling down from the fertile Cherangani hills. The river pushes into the bushy valley and snakes up through the land, continuing on to Lake Turkana in the far North. A thin sliver of vegetation hugs each bank of the river. Much of the village life of Nakwamoru depends heavily on this slim green and fertile gift. There are also two smaller villages a few kilometres up stream from Nakwamoru that come under the same parish. These are Juluk and Kapelibok and I was to visit them during my stay. After the extensive history and geography lesson I was brought outside to meet some of the locals and to see the village for myself. It was startling.

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Around Nakwamoru

Outside I was instantly struck by the complete absence of water. Overhead was a constant blue sky with no clouds. The air was dusty and dry and the ground was entirely sand or stone. The bush and plant life that did grow was hostile and had survived by employing spiky branches and many thorns to keep any animal or human seeking its inner reserves of water at bay. The heat was intense, well past the mid 30’s. The mountains I had travelled down through the previous evening were far off in the distance.

The layout of the village was dispersed and random. It lacked any feel of a village. Mud huts mingled with bushes which did more mingling again with a few concrete buildings. There was no central square or coherent sequence to the layout of buildings. Nor did any radiating routes spread out from the village. This lack of formal layout and continuing density of local shrubbery had the effect of camouflaging the village into the local terrain. The modern concrete structures were the church, school, missionary house, nurses’ house, health unit and co-op store. Huts were much more prevalent as they were the Turkana’s living quarters. These mud huts made from anthill clay and are roofed with reed from the nearby river. They were often clustered cosily together and Ashi and I walked in and around them. I was intrigued by this strange world. Today the village is home to approximately two thousand people. This includes a large body of wander Turkana who only live locally for a few months of the year.

We curiously inspected the homes of the people but not without making a few cultural mistakes. It seemed that the internal space of the hut was supplemented by a larger external area with no visible boundaries. While walking around the village even Ashi who had been living locally for some months led me accidentally into these personal spaces. Honour and privacy are closely linked amongst Turkana’s and we frequently had to apologise to busy mothers for our careless rambling. A quirk of the area was seeing the ancient huts but with very modern padlocks on their doors. Both the local men and women kept these keys and also wore them as jewellery.

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Carrying on we met some men sitting under a tree. They were taking shelter from the intense sun. We shook hands and through one of the kids translating said they were pleased to meet me. I echoed their kind words and asked that they show me their stick and stool.

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Many of the men had decorative neck chains, colourful cloaks and some even had ornamental plugs holes in their chins. They worked as farmers, mechanics and all-round handy men. A little further on and away from the shelter of the tree I met the chief of the village who welcomed me to Nakwamoru. While he does not perform any particular functional role in the running of the village the chief was still consulted on some matters, particularly the security of the village. A simple protective fence enclosed many of the local huts but incursions from a rival tribe still occurred and were a recurring danger.

Nakwamoru and Turkana

Traditionally the Turkana people have lived low down in the valley and the Pokot people have lived up in the hills. Another tradition is that these two tribes don’t get along very well. Following the ousting of Idi Amin in 1979 in nearby Uganda the Pokots managed to arm themselves by stealing guns from many abandoned stockpiles. To prevent a one-sided slaughter and possible civil war in their own country the Kenyan government quickly set about arming the Turkana people. This balancing of weaponry has preserved a peace of sorts in the area but it has ensured that raiding has remained a regular occurrence. Cattle and goats are the principal local commodity and the target for the typical raider. The Pogots have generally been the more offensive tribe in coming down from the hills to raid the Turkanas. Following a well attended protest by many locals within the last year, the police have finally clamped down and the frequency of the raiding has decreased. The odd incursion still occurs and there have also been reports of Turkana's raiding each other. All of this activity has certainly served to keep the health unit busy.

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To make the mail drop journey we travelled to the nearby villages of Juluk and Kapelibok. Communications are very limited by the transport that exists between these three villages on the river. The only way to deliver a message between them is to send it travelling as a letter in the two jeeps or one motorbike that are based in Nakwamoru. They are equally quiet places and the presence of our jeep passing through the village was an event for people to gather around, sing and handover any mail they had. Any message or mail for further afield is transported on some of the occasional long expeditions to Lodwar or Kitale. These towns are 100 and 200 miles away respectively. There is certainly no mobile phone coverage in the area but there was a unique satellite that enabled a slow internet connection to be put in place for the mission. Nakwamoru is online for email at Ngitunga@. The tiny town of Lokichar is the closest town to Nakwamoru, only 30 miles away. It sometimes has supplies for the village that need to be collected.

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The locals often get to where they are going by walking and they have their own unique invention to assist them in doing so. It is the shoes that they wear on their feet. Their innovation is to convert old car tyres into extremely long life sandals. The rubber is fashioned into a sole and it straps onto ones foot. The underside often still has the pattern of the original tyre which means foot print shaped car tracks are often left in a trail along the dirt tracks of the area.

Back to School

On the second day of my stay in Nakwamoru we went for a visit to the village of Juluk. Here we stopped to call into the local primary school. While outside this school I saw a chalkboard with a provocative message written up in large letters. “EUROPEANS SHOULD GO BACK TO THEIR COUNTRY”. I quickly took a picture before being beckoned inside. Here I met the headmaster of the school where I told him what I had just read.

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It did make me think. Was it right to simply arrive and believe that it was proper for me to donate to people who were so less privileged than I was. It certainly told me that the locals were asking the same questions and encouraging their children to do so too.

The headmaster showed me around to the classrooms. My visit was unplanned, but the teachers didn’t hesitate to stop their lessons and introduce me to the class. Mostly I just waved my hand to say “Jambo” and the teacher would explain what subject he was teaching. The selection of subjects had a practical bias that was typical of most Kenyan schools - Maths, English, African literature, the Sciences, Agriculture, History and Socio-ethics. Religion is also taught and Kenya is one of only four countries in the world where the state will provide religious teachings to suit any student in the school.

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After being shown around the school, the head teacher confirmed how much more could be achieved with better resources like additional study materials, extra books and more teachers. It is true to say that in any kind of development work the role of education is fundamental and there was little doubt on this matter how Europeans could help. Education in Kenya receives most of its investment at primary level. However it is still under funded. Free education is often promised by the government but it rarely fully materialises. Schools are always short of teachers and parents often have to subsidise a teacher’s salary. In addition primary school teachers as an occupation are affected badly by high mortality rates due to AIDS. Most villages have primary schools and there are six hundred alone in the district of Turkana. Increasingly educated children who can speak English have a stronger independence from their parents and this allows them to strive for a better local society. The ongoing success of the self-managed irrigation scheme setup by Gorta in 1968 is a testament to this. Schools are also sometimes used as a method for cultivating peace by sending children from rival tribes to be educated together.

Education also combats the complex problem of dependence on aid. Too much aid maintains a status quo of polarised wealth and poverty. Many educated Africans are aware of this and dislike any arrangement which involves their people surviving in the shadow of western handouts. Ashi told me how the problem was seen locally. The media is often over attentive to how much money is being donated to a particular cause. At the same time highly funded conferences spend significant amounts of money and seem only to generate publicity rather than real benefits. Saving AIDS victim’s lives with available ARV drugs has not been equally prioritised. Ashi himself thought it akin to a football commentator describing the activities of the referee for an entire match rather than explaining what was happening to the players.

Local Economy and Irrigation Scheme

Sitting under the stars one evening, Father John told me much about how Nakwamoru worked. The local economy which includes Nakwamoru, Juluk and Kapelibok grapples with many problems. A lack of knowledge and resources, absence of any infrastructure and a hostile climate all encourage dependence on donated aid. The Mission in Nakwamoru has organised the locals to work together to form an economy that will build up wealth which can improve their area. There is always some labour to be done, such as clearing the road, attending the farm plots and fixing basic machinery. Small but locally valued wages are given out on Friday. The mission also holds some of the villager’s money in bank accounts and acts as a trustee for loans requested by locals.

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The entire circle of life of the village depends completely on the river. Its potential has been harnessed mostly into irrigation for agriculture. Father John has been very involved in developing this scheme. This has been the main enabler of a settled lifestyle for the Turkana people. The Turkwell River has only dried up once in recent times but since the building of the huge Turkwell dam during the 1980s by the French the flooding of the river has been much more controlled. Maize is the main crop grown and it is made into flour and subsequently ugale porridge. Everyone is involved in working the land and the children specialize in scarecrow duty. They stand on a wooden platform above the level of the crops and harass any eager birds or invaders that arrive onto the Maize.

There is no machinery in the area and all the labour is completely manual with the aid of very simple tools. Farmland is separated into one acre per family and ½ acre for single people. These are called shambos. Working the land involves watering crops with hand and bucket and its transportation on ones head and back. There is also a trial plot where new crops are tried out before they are planted widely. The management of entire irrigation system was handed over twelve years ago from the mission to local management. It has not been without its problems but the new presence of local managers who have studied sustainable agriculture at third level is helping.

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Visiting the Health Unit

The business of health is one of the major activities of Nakwamoru. There is currently a small health unit in the village with twenty five staff members. It is run by Sister Rosetta, a Wexford born Irish sister from the Medical Missionaries of Mary. One day after lunch she explained all the activities of the health unit. The bulk of their work is to help with pregnancies, children's health and local disease. The health unit has forty beds and two maternity wards. There is also an outpatient, inpatient and TB clinic.

The local women have historically always given birth in a hut. This traditional method has a very high infant mortality rate. Now most pregnancies are delivered in the health unit and survival rates have improved. There are always some emergencies and for such occasions the flying doctors are called. The shortwave radio in the village is used to communicate with the flying doctors and following a 12-24 hour response time they can land at the local airstrip. They have also been called upon for gunshot wounds and snake bites.

Children’s health is monitored closely in the health unit. Each child that is born in Nakwamoru, Kapelibok and Juluk is given a "Road to Health" chart. This is like an obesity chart with an overweight and underweight line that when crossed has a range of consequences and requirements. There are also landmarks dates where a child is scheduled to receive injections for whooping cough, measles, diphtheria and TB.

The list of local diseases is long. Chest infections, ringworm, malaria, snake bites, gun wounds, typhoid are all widespread afflictions which are treatable but only when the required medicine or treatment is available. This is dependent on the government sometimes intermittent but generally good supply. Both measles and polio have recently been brought under control. Smallpox has been eliminated and Chickenpox is now rare. But other diseases like HIV, Aids and Hepatitis are widespread and un-curable. Many of the local children were HIV positive themselves having lost both parents to the epidemic. There are ARV drugs available which prolong the life of an AIDS sufferer by up to ten years. They are prohibitively expensive though and have never been made available in Nakwamoru. Despite the recent pledging of $15 billion aid by the USA there have been no ARV drugs available in Nakwamoru village amongst the people who need it most.

AIDS has affected Kenya on a horrific level. Every day five hundred people succumb to the disease and die. The manufacturing of coffins has become one of the biggest emerging businesses in the country and horrifically having enough trees to supply this industry is also becoming a major problem. Kenya’s few forests have become seriously depleted. Wangari Maathai, the winner of the recent Nobel Peace Prize in Kenya has been campaigning to preserve enough forests to maintain the land.

The nurses work shifts that cover from eight in the morning until ten at night. Despite the hard work and long shifts, the facilities are still over-burdened. Many children still lie on the floor with their mothers outside waiting to be treated. Also, none of the nurses could speak the local language. Many of the diagnoses are still done through a translated language and this seriously hampers the quality of how the patient is treated.

Amidst the primitive and awful conditions of work the nurses maintained a deep belief in the work they were doing. Working with the local families for over twenty five years has given them a compassionate stoicism. On one evening Ashi and I shared tea with them. I was utterly moved by the charm of their company, the frankness of their relationship with God and the immense but silent dedication to the community’s health and survival.

Locals Inhabitants

Outside of the health unit the local women came and went supporting loads on their heads while weaning children at their breast. They wore colourful wraps, shawls and neck bracelets. The local custom of wearing sufficient bracelets to extend ones neck to the point where it cannot support itself has mostly died out.

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The children of the village were very sociable and gregarious. They quickly took to following me everywhere and very soon I had got to know most of them. While not at school the kids help work the land by being the scarecrows of the crops. They also ramble around playing heartily with each other and the local terrain. They showed me a makeshift trap for catching birds and on another occasion formally instructed me on how to knock an out-of-reach mango from a tree. I was fortunate to take the fruit down on my first attempt and was gleefully congratulated all-round. Their names showed an enthusiastic and innocent willingness on the part of their parents to join the developed world. Some of the kids introduced themselves as Sunday, Justice, Ernest, William, Wyclef and Cosmos.

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It has become the domain of a few experts to play and sing music, and much of the ordinary joy within it had been lost. But in Nakwamoru everyone sang calmly.

Turkana by Night

Having visited all of the facilities of the village and shared in much of the life, I was to spend the last night witnessing the Turkana’s collective singing, dancing and socialising. As the sun went down behind the Cherangini Hills and darkness consumed the valley, spirited melodies and tribal chanting came tripping across the village. It was the sound of exuberant Turkana youth. To see the commotion more closely we had to cross the village for ½km. No moonlight and only very few electrical lights meant complete darkness across the land.

At night, no-one was allowed out without a torch. This wasn’t just to prevent possible accidents involving sharp thorn bushes and deep sand holes in the dark but to ensure that everyone who is outside can scan the ground in front for scorpions. Their poisonous bite is frequently fatal and there is often no remedy available in Nakwamoru. Due to the heat I wasn’t taking the doctors anti-scorpion advice by wearing shoes. I flopped along in my sandals trying to detect whether they were coming near. They move silently and are not very good at noticing people coming and keeping out of the way. Every year a few people die as a result, fortunately I didn’t add myself to this statistic.

We got to the scene of the melee. All around there was apparent pandemonium but this was just until I came to understand what was going on. The young people of the Turkana had gathered themselves into a loosely formed circle and were singing to each other. No fire, torches or moonlight lit up the area and it made my black friends who were already difficult to see at night virtually invisible. Only their smile revealed where they were but getting separated and then trying to relocate them in the dark was tricky.

Thankfully there were no stern bouncers at the entrance checking ID's, levels of intoxication or enforcing a dress code. Amongst the dancing circle nobody had a musical instrument, no-one was leading any of the activities and nobody was intoxicated. There was much dust in the air and the mood was electric. Songs about life, cattle and the weather were sung. There has always been a lack of rain in this area and the ancient songs reflect that. There were many different and complicated rhythms and the circle changed shapes many times as different people moved in and out of the centre. Sometimes they danced to the rhythm of the claps and at other times the men started a jumping competition each striving to achieve the highest leap that would attract the most female attention.

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Being able to see the photo on the preview screen on my digital camera gave enjoyment and provided distraction. My presence as the only white person made me quite a curiosity and anywhere I stopped for a few minutes a large crowd gathered around to observe me astutely. This left me feeling unsettled so we didn't stay for too long before heading back to the village.

That night, many, many crickets had come into the mission’s house. They chirped incessantly and I had to hunt down and kill the ones who were in my room to bring some quite to the quarters. They still rattled around the rest of the house and combined with the noise across the village of the youth still dancing made for a suitable soundtrack to my last night in Turkana. Amidst the perpetual heat, I slowly dosed off to sleep.

Last day in Nakwamoru

On the morning we left, we attended Mass. Only 10% of the locals are Christian and attend church. It was an exuberant and colourful affair with nearly everyone who was present participating. African masses often have a unique interpretation on the Christianity that is known in the western world. The famous bible story of the two sons who respond to the fathers request for help is often understood differently by Africans. The story goes that the first son says he will help but doesn’t and the second son does offer help after saying he wouldn’t do so. In the African tradition the first son is always considered to be the more respectful and better of the two. Amongst some tribes the bible has been translated differently into the local language to account for this cultural difference.

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He was still generous to a fault. Upon hearing I was leaving Nakwamoru shortly he said to me:

“You are my friend. I will give you a leaving present. I will give you a cock hen”

Taken aback, I stuttered loudly and faltered before replying. As polite as I could I declined his kind offer.

“Wow,” I said “Thank you very much, but I couldn’t possible take your valuable cock hen, you definitely need it more than me”

”Ok, you have no stool. I will give you a stool. I will meet you here and give you a stool”

Michael went off amongst the huts but never came back. I was later informed by a senior African priest in Nairobi that I had gravely insulted this man by refusing his offer. To not accept a gift anywhere in Africa is fraudulent behaviour and an insult to the honour of the individual making the gesture.

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The following day we all returned back to Nairobi by the ever reliable and trustworthy Akamba bus.

Thoughts before leaving Kenya

Although Kenya is one of the most receptive and worthwhile countries for tourists to visit in Africa the successful traveller will need to be streetwise and aware of opportunistic scamming and petty crime that is common. I was lucky to only be a victim of inquisitive hassle but some aggrieved tourists have done much worse. Nairobi has received the ignominious title of "Nairobbery" from some embittered travellers. Corruption is also rife and Kenya is internationally ranked as the joint fourth most corrupt country in the world. Almost confirming this was an advertisement I saw while on the road. It was for a company called "Hidden Dollars Investments".

A week and a half after returning from Nakwamoru I flew home from Nairobi. Taking off from Jomo Kenyatta international airport is a unique experience. Because of the high altitude of Nairobi, aircraft take much longer to gain the necessary speed to leave the ground. Our plane thundered along the runway for an age before eventually tilting skywards and flying into the clouds. Aeronautical technology doesn’t benefit from the thin air in the same way Kenya’s long distance runners do.

I thought back to the memory of the people I visited. They were simultaneously the oldest and one of the poorest societies in the world. Being amongst them exposed me to a uniquely ancient wisdom of living but it was the poverty they knew that had a greater effect on me. Despite the extremity of it they were filled with compassion and their kindness and beauty transformed me. I had turned up in their small society to take photos on a camera that was locally worth most of a year’s savings. One of the kids I met and photographed had no home or parents, his only possessions were a tee-shirt and the HIV virus.

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The End – July 2004

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The night passed quietly and twelve hours later, after a long deep sleep I slowly awoke. Before looking around I was aware of being very far away from the developed world. There was no background sound. An empty silence existed and through this I heard an occasional patter of feet on dry sand and an odd wispy conversation in Turkana. Slowly, I started to appreciate that I had actually made it to Nakwamoru.

Frequently while walking around they would burst into beautiful and unaccompanied singing. There is an old African proverb which says “If you can walk you can dance, if you can talk you can sing” This was wholeheartedly the case here. I thought back to how the division of labour had affected music in the developed world. There it had become the domain of a few experts to play and sing music, and much of the ordinary joy within it had been lost.

In 1899 the capital Nairobi was built as a strategically located town on the East African railroad. Today it is a smelly, dusty and capitalist city. It’s the commercial and administrative capital of East Africa and has a population of 2½ million. In this picture the man in the yellow shirt is about to defy all reasonable laws of safety by carrying an enormous sack of potatoes on his back.

Along the route commercial activity thrived by selling vegetables, fowl and Coca Cola. As the bus sped along, eager farmers waved live chickens and hens by the necks to the potential customers in transit. Anytime a bus did stop swarms of eager vendors crowded on to display their carrots, onions, potatoes and bananas. I found them to be a welcome source of food but the persistence of their selling was tiring.

The only map I had of my destination was a scribbled sketch by Mike Cunningham of the immediate vicinity. At one stage I had said to myself that I wouldn’t make the journey if I found out the village was in the hostile North. However only being able to know where I was going once I got there rendered this ultimatum impotent so with a sense of reckless adventure, I departed.

After coming down and out of West Pokot and into Turkana we were stopped at a checkpoint. Here the local police insisted that we get an escort were we to travel further. Father John accepted this offer with a familiar know-how and we continued. I never was to see the escort. We descended into the Turkana valley, darkness falling as the temperature rose.

Continuing on our walkabout, we met some kids who joined us and quickly formed a large meandering party. They were to become a constant presence to my few days in Nakwamoru. Everywhere I went, these enthusiastic little bundles followed.

The unique stool all Turkana men own can be used either to sit on or as a pillow to sleep on. The stick supports them while on walkabout. They have extremely hardy constitutions and would think little of lying down to sleep on the sand.

While travelling between villages for a mail stop we met a well armed road repair crew. Here Ashi is posing for the camera while sitting on the bike a gun.

But it is accessible only by crossing the river on foot. The alternative is a six hour road journey to cross the river by the nearest bridge. There was always a lot activity down by the river. There were often people crossing over with stuff and men hanging around and looking important.

“So you knew I was coming” I said.

Everyone laughed loudly.

“Oh no” said the headmaster

“Just a debate, people bring ideas for and against, an ongoing discussion”

The facilities in the school were basic; bare concrete classrooms, chunky wooden desks and a single blackboard to write on. Most of the student's copies were made from cardboard, newspaper and some writing paper. Basic necessities like pens and enough chairs are lacking. I gave all I had, wishing I had more with me.

Even all this work cannot currently provide enough food for the population. UNICEF and Worldvision still make annual donations of nine kgs per month to each family. The food substance is called unimix and it is a melange of maize, beans, oil and sugar. This accounts for about half of the diet of a local family.

There is also a trial plot where new crops are tried out before they are planted widely. The management of entire irrigation system was handed over twelve years ago from the mission to local management. It has not been without its problems but the new presence of local managers who have studied sustainable agriculture at third level is helping.

There is still great colour in what they do wear and a lot of meaning resides in the patterns combinations. It is said that a trained eye can easily distinguish between a married and a single woman. To take this picture I had haggle firmly. The women admonished me at first for taking a previous picture at a distance. Eventually I was able to win their favour by paying for an additional picture (this one) and the previous one.

I had been un-invited but was determined to take a few photos. Each time I did the flash split the sky open and there were screams of excitement and fear. A camera flash at night is very like the flash of a gun. There are many more guns in the area than cameras. On this occasion, nobody objected.

After mass but before leaving I met Michael the local beekeeper for the first time. He was having difficulties with his bees due to the lack of rain. The local plants weren't growing well leaving the bees unable to collect enough pollen to produce sufficient honey. This was leaving the honey stores empty.

Leaving Nakwamoru was a low key affair. Father John and Ashi were also departing but there was a minimal farewell party. The Turkana culture traditionally doesn’t involve goodbyes. We drove out of the village and crossed up through the land to Kitale in six hours. We broke the journey into two stages by spending a night here.

This absolute lack of possessions meant friendship was an instant process. And in helping them, it wasn’t strangers I was working with, but friends. If you do decide to travel to Kenya you’ll need anti-malaria tablets, a vaccination for typhoid, polio, tetanus and hepatitis and despite what the locals do, don’t drink the water.

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