Preface:  Hello world. It’s been a while since my last posting and a month since I arrived in Kenya. For the first time thus far, I am on my own. Though extremely exciting, the past month has also been a bit on the strange side. Put simply, I’ve had to wear my share of “hats”. Though I have enjoyed wearing them all, it has been different. With the Daraja team members (Grey Brooks, Mark Lukach and Bob Bessin) I was in the “on-the-go-meet-Daraja-Academy-and-Kenya” hat. This had less to do with them, all three are easy to travel with, than it had to do with me and the nagging feeling that I wouldn’t be able to show/do/be and see enough during their allotted time in Kenya. I’ve worn the “meet-and-rally-the-staff” hat, which is now nicely transitioning into the “part-of-the-staff” hat. There has been the “dressed-up-becoming-acquainted-with-potential-benefactors, donors and bestowers of knowledge” fedora and many others.

But, during that time I never really got much of a chance to don the “wow-I-just-moved-to-Africa” hat. This is the hat I have been breaking in since Bob flew off the continent nearly one week ago. It is also the reason my blog has been silent. That and the fact that my cell phone, which also serves as my modem at campus, got wet and was out of action for 72 hours.

As I begin this update I am conflicted. In my first blog entry I vowed to be completely honest, reporting both the highs AND the lows that I encounter leading up to Daraja Academy’s commencement in January. My thinking was: the creation of a free, girls Secondary School in a developing nation, is if anything – a unique story. Tell it how it is and people will read. However, today I am remembering something… I’m human.

I’m human and Daraja Academy is my baby. I am so excited about its future; the beauty that is its mission and the degree of possibility that exists in the classrooms, campus and future, as well as the growing contingent of volunteers and donors.  At times I find myself unintentionally protecting the story. I’ve learned that part of me is nervous about sharing the “other-than-positive” news, fearful of its effects on the school’s gathering momentum.

So here I am, unsure if I should continue this story with gaps where the obstacles arise, and potentially lose readers to boredom or “tell all” and potential lose donors and supporters to nerves. But, I said I would tell all… so I will. Plus, the Irish portion of my make-up can’t pass up the opportunity to relay this story.

Bob Bessin, Peter Wathitu and I were hurtling towards Nairobi, south of the Kikuyu heartland’s unofficial capital of Karatina.  We’d just met with one of the brothers who own the land that the campus is built on. Though it was only our first meeting, Peter had told us a lot about Maina, having done business with him for over 10 years now. Entering his early 50’s, Maina has a firm handshake and a thoughtful smile. He was very interested in Daraja Academy’s objectives to school underprivileged girls and asked us many questions before he came to his conclusion, “It will work. This Daraja or bridge to get us from point A to point B will work. It will be welcomed.” Whether he remembers those feelings during our upcoming negotiations or is able to convince his brother, a 50% partner in the property, to be like-minded or not, remains to be seen.

We’d been driving through rain showers all morning so, though surprising, it was not totally shocking when several gallons of water splashed over the bumper and hood onto the windshield. Unfortunately, what we thought was a simple puddle was not. The hood began steaming and gauges and lights began flashing across the dashboard.

We’d burned through a belt, which caused our radiator to overheat and essentially “blow its lid”. The spot that had been the thick plastic cover of the truck’s radiator that morning, now looked like something out of a war movie. Sizzling chunks of melted plastic rested in pools of boiling water under ragged, smoking strips of destroyed insulation, which hung from the underside of the hood.

Other than payments to the Baraka Board for the campus, this Toyota 4×4 was by far our largest expenditure, and she now appeared to need a hospice program. My heart sank. Unfortunately, the breakdown didn’t occur in a town, we were stuck alongside miles of Del Monte pineapple fields. The only human being in sight, sat with binoculars in a 20-foot tall tower that was erected to help spot pineapple thieves. They could not be less interested in our situation, and I would have better served our cause if I’d have run into the field and began picking and stuffing the fruit into my pants and under my shirt.

Together, Bob and I pushed the truck as Peter steered to the rim of a sloping decline and excitedly hopped in. Without exaggeration, I could limp in the dark faster than we rolled. But we rolled and rolled until a Citi-Hoppa bus pulled off the highway in front of us. After some haggling they offered to tow us to a hotel near Chaina Falls on the out skirts of Thika, a town about 30 kms from Nairobi. We agreed and limped into the hotel’s parking lot five minutes later.

Ever the hero, Peter quickly jumped into a matatu (to be described soon) while Bob and I hunkered down with our bags to a light lunch, in front of a rather guilt-inducing scene of beautiful orange and crimson flame trees framing the small, but picturesque waterfalls.  

This is probably a good spot to introduce Peter Maina Wathitu, the Director of Operations at Daraja Academy. I do not think that I could OVER sell this man and won’t. Having worked at the campus for over a decade he knows all of the campus’s ins and outs, secrets and sagas. It is very clear why the Baraka Board included in their negotiations the simple stipulation that they would only give us the incredible sale price we’d agreed upon if we continued to employ Peter. He held things together when it didn’t look as though they could be during Baraka’s lean period, and they wanted to be sure he was taken care of.

In some ways, Peter and I have led similar lives. Also in his mid 30’s, he has been through similar highs and lows in his life.  Peter is honest, humble and genuinely understands the need for a school like Daraja Academy and how it fits into his country’s future. This became clear when several weeks ago while alone, he said to me, “I want to be a part of this, not as an employee – as a partner.” He went on to explain that his motivation wasn’t linked to his pay, in fact he has volunteered to actually “tighten his belt” until we are able to find more sustainable funding. This is amazing considering the fact that this man has not had a pay raise in over 5 years and lives in a country that has experienced over 30% inflation over the same period. He explained that this idea that is Daraja Academy–giving bright, motivated, but marginalized girls of poverty a chance to better their futures–is a historic one. Peter is a good husband to his wife Josephine, a great father to his daughter Janice and a good friend to me.

After he returned to the steaming hulk of a 4×4 with a local mechanic and his two assistants, Peter suggested Bob and I make our way to our hotel in Nairobi as repairing the truck might take a while… and a while it definitely took. Bob and I didn’t see Peter for 30 hours as he oversaw the re-creation of our radiator head panel. No small feat as pieces of the original were either incinerated or deposited across 2 kilometers of Kenyan highway.

Bob and I loaded into a matatu with too many bags and headed for Nairobi. Matatus are basically rectangular mini vans. Most are 5 to 25 years old and all of them are some shade of their original white. Though close to identical from afar, each matatu has its very own, unique personality – celebrated by the pictures, sayings and markings which are scrolled ALL OVER their chassis’.

Matatus wear their markings as prison inmates would display tattoos. However, there is always rhyme, reason or continuity to their markings. Just as a prisoner’s ink scrawlings might seem disjointed due to his mood at the time of the inking, matatu’s sayings are not always consistent. Though some bare religious sayings, rap lyrics or sexy pictures of Britney Spears or Shakira in some level of disrobe; others are less predictable or at least consistent. I’ve seen “Because of My Sweet Mother’s Love” on the back window of a matatu resting just above “Thug Life – ‘Til I Die Biatch!” etched over an AK-47.

Bob and I piled into an already full matatu heading for Nairobi all of our bags on our laps due to lack of space. Jammed into the front seat next to a 70-something gentleman with a nagging cough and our intense driver. With only some unspoken, predetermined route, passengers whistled twice as their stop rocketed at the van. We progressively offloaded, reloaded and consistently kept a few more passengers than seats. Finally, we swerved our way into Nairobi and unpiled at the mayhem that is the truck stop/international bus and matatu terminal playfully known as the “Macao’s airport.” This is the main artery that pumps humanity across East Africa and Bob and I lucked into finding a fellow passenger who took pity on us and helped us through the throngs of people to our connecting matatu.

In less than 20 minutes, we safely arrived at the hotel that is slowly becoming the Daraja Academy Nairobi hub. It is inexpensive by Nairobi standards, green and serves breakfast. Though pedigree of the clientele is variable, its safe and not a bad place. Within a day, Peter was back with “Black Beauty”, a name the truck has begun answering to, and all was well in the universe.

The next night we dropped Bob at the airport and headed north toward the equator; back to Nanyuki; back to the campus that is beginning to be known as the Daraja Academy.     

P.S. Technology is amazing. The campus doesn’t have a land-line or permanent electricity beyond our diesel generator. Yet, I am able to sign onto the internet and communicate with you. This is the first successful Blog sent from campus. As I type, I am sitting on my deck, on the hill above campus. It is 9:40 pm. Its pitch black other than the glow of the computer screen. Other than the occasional night bird and the pressing of my computer keys, the only sound is that of a dog barking in the dark from the small Turkana village that sits beyond the campus fence. I am full of wonder, I love and miss you all.

 

*** I don’t think that many things could help this cause more than you spreading the word. The more people that visit the Daraja Academy website, see what the directors and volunteers are up to, read the blog and discuss the need for equal education at their dinner table or around the water cooler, the greater the chance of that somebody… anybody making that contribution that makes year I happen.

If the blog makes you think, please pass the word onto your friends.***