Blessings

"A pack of blessings light upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love."

-Friar Lawrence. Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene III

  Two weeks ago, I went on a tour of the Kibera Slum in Nairobi, Kenya. The slums, which are visible from most of the downtown tourist sites, are the largest urban slums in Africa, with an estimated population of just under two million people. Two million.  The labyrinthine web of alleys and neighborhoods is impossible to navigate without the help of a long-time resident, and around every turn, visitors to the area see raw sewage, rubbish, malnourished and mange-ridden animals, and row after row of shoddily-built one room houses.

These railroad tracks are still in operation, by the way.

Father and his favorite daughter looking out over the slums.

   The people in the slums, the children in particular, were some of the kindest, warmest, happiest people I have ever met. Despite their situation, they laughed and smiled more than most of the people I meet back home. They welcomed us into their homes with open arms, and showed us the type of kindness and generosity that feels all too rare in the egocentric western world. And in the whole time I spent in the slums, I never heard the ubiquitous phrase, "Mzungu, give me money!" that you hear everywhere else in Africa. Rather than seeing themselves as entitled to aid or handouts, the people in Kibera saw everything they had as a blessing rather than something deserved.

Mama Christian's family outside of her two-room home.

  The two hours I spent in the slum were difficult and eye-opening, and forced me to rethink the way I viewed the terms "luxury" and "necessity". The slums, which are so expansive that they are impossible to ignore, are wedged between a new set of luxury condos and a golf course. (There is a lovely view of the shanty-town from the eighth green.) The whole idea made me sick. Rich and semi-rich people literally live their daily lives overlooking the pain and struggles of two million people right next door.

Foreground: Kibera. Background: Luxury Apartments

   The whole thing made me angry, both at the situation and at myself. I was no different from the people living in the new high-rise apartments. I live a life of comparative luxury, while people in my immediate vicinity struggle every day. The night before going to the slums I literally ate myself sick on a $50 meal of meat and meat and more meat. (It was delicious. I highly recommend eating at Carnivore if you are ever in the Greater-Nairobi area. But I digress.) And now I was among people who don't even get a full meal every day.
   Immediately after leaving the slums, heartbroken and drained, my companions and I went for a quick bite. At Kentucky Fried Chicken. In a shopping mall. After spending two hours trudging though mud, human waste, and garbage, we immediately found ourselves thrust back into the world of "buy one diamond watch and get the second one half off" and "Super size your meal so you and your family can get diabetes twice as fast!" 

Saturated fat and High-Fructose Corn Syrup, how I've missed you.

   My friend/daughter Erin and I felt physically ill when we arrived at the shopping center. We were standing in the middle of a mall almost identical to the ones we have back home, and yet it felt somehow foreign and unnecessary, and as we ate our greasy, fattening (albeit delicious) lunch, we felt guilty at our own gluttony. It seemed almost impossible for us to reconcile the two experiences in our minds. It was as if in two short hours, our worldview, which had already evolved dramatically since arriving in Africa, had changed. We had a keen sense of perspective that we hadn't had before arriving in Kenya.
   

   Six days later I had another experience that forced me to look at my own life and reevaluate my priorities. For the past two months I have been working with the amazing kids at Hope Center Orphanage, just outside of Arusha. In my all too short time there, I have grown to love the kids who live at Hope as if they are my own family. They constantly remind me how blessed I am to have parents and siblings, a modern house with a fully-stocked kitchen and air conditioning, and a million other little things that I rarely stop to be grateful for.
   On Friday night, however, my understanding of their daily life reached a new level when I spent the night at the orphanage. Another volunteer and I made the choice that we would give our kids a one night break from the monotony of orphanage life by bringing them pizza from a well-known local restaurant, cake from a delicious hotel bakery, and a laptop on which we could stream Netflix. (I am rather proud to say that the kids at Hope Center have now been exposed to the awesomeness that is Disney's "Hercules".)

Six pizzas, Two cakes, and One laptop = 12 happy kids

Rough Translation: "I love Hope Center"

   The night was great, and it was amazing to see the joy on the kids faces as they ate and watched the movie, but the best part of the night came immediately before we all went to sleep. All of the kids sat in the small classroom, which was lit by a single candle due to the lack of electricity. Then, one of the girls, Jacklin, sang a hauntingly beautiful hymn in Swahili, which the other kids proceeded to repeat. When they finished the song, immediately all of the people in the room simultaneously began praying out loud. The swelling sound of over a dozen praying kids and adults was enough to make my heart leap, but the content of the prayers was really what stuck with me. As I listened to all of the kids talking over each other, I kept hearing one word: "Asante" ("Thank You"). 
   In this dark room with no power and about ten million flies, in an orphanage where kids who have no families sleep two and three to a bed, they were thanking God for the blessings in their lives. Whoa. Hey there, perspective. Thanks for the punch in the face.
  

   This week, the Tanzanian government announced that they do not have enough power for the whole country. So from Arusha to Dar Es Salaam and beyond, the power is being tightly rationed. Everyone gets only a few hours of power a day, mostly in the middle of the night. To compound the problem, when the power goes out, the water goes out with it. So no showers. No toilets. No faucets. All available water has to be stored in buckets and used sparingly throughout the day, since goodness knows when our spigots will be working again.
   Despite the frustration of sitting in the dark with no water and no power, I am still struck by how blessed I am. Blessed to have this experience. Blessed to have family and friends back home. Blessed to have food to eat. Blessed to have money in my pocket (well, not so much anymore). I am blessed to have clean clothes every day. (Haha. Just kidding. Nobody wears clean clothes here). I am blessed to have an education. I am blessed to live in a country where women are valued. I am blessed that I don't have to fear for my safety, well-being, or health every day.
   My biggest fear in returning home is that I will forget the lessons that I learned in Kibera and at Hope Center. I fear that I will once again take all of my blessings for granted. I fear that I will once again start complaining about trivialities like traffic or taxes or the weakness of my latte at Starbucks. I fear that I will once again grow complacent, seeing but not acting on the injustices around me. I fear getting too comfortable.
   It's the home stretch (T-Minus 5 days), and, like it or not, I have to come back to the States sometime. I just hope that the lessons I have learned here follow me home.