Last weekend’s excursion was to Hell’s Gate National Park, whose terrain had been the inspiration for the Lion King. I had started off the day bright and early, meeting my friend Joshua in Ayany before beginning the journey to Hell’s Gate National Park. Joshua is a volunteer at Carolina for Kibera, who works with the scholarships program. He’s been involved with CFK for several years, and lives in the Kibera village of Kianda with his family. He recently graduated from high school, and is currently awaiting his standardized test results that will determine what he can study in university; he is hoping to become a civil engineer, which will require top marks.

Once downtown, we met up with Scott, our fellow intern at CFK, who hails from Washington, DC’s American University. He is a charismatic and talkative guy who is passionate about healthcare in the developing world. Together, the four of us hopped on the same matatu I had taken the previous weekend to Lake Naivasha, and settled in for the winding journey into the Great Rift Valley. Once we arrived in Naivasha, we were greeted by the town’s many street touts, all of them desperately trying to get their hands on our tourist cash. Adamant about avoiding the over-charging that had plagued our previous Naivasha trip, we got Joshua to negotiate a fair price in Swahili with our potential cab driver.

Our cab driver dropped us off about 2 km away from the road, where a friend of his ran a small bike rental shop. For 500 Kenyan shillings (about $7 Canadian), I got a yellow Giant mountain bike with a bright blue seat for the entire day. After rigorously testing the brakes and buying another liter of water, we started riding off towards the gate of the national park. The road was hot, dusty, and bumpy – the dry season was in full swing, and the land was looking parched from the sweltering Kenya sun. We were sweating already by the time we arrived at the park’s front gate. There, we paid our park entrance fees, which were quite a bit cheaper than we’d anticipated: since I have a student visa for the next six months, I am considered a resident and receive heavily discounted prices for all national parks. Thanks, UBC! Then we hopped back on our bikes and set off into the midday Kenyan heat.

Joshua, Scott and I with our new zebra friends.

Not even five minutes after entering the park, we spotted our first sign of wildlife: a pack of zebras, grazing in the grass by the roadside! A coworker had told me I’d be bored of seeing zebras by the time my stay in the park was over, but staring at these gorgeous animals only a few feet away from me, I found that hard to believe. They stared at us with cautious curiosity as we edged closer for a photo op.

 Spot the rock-climbers…

Next to the munching zebras, a huge rocky tower jutted up towards the sky, looking out of place in the wide savannah. As we approached, I realized that this was a rock-climbing site – for 500 shillings we could scale the jagged rocks to the top. Being a huge adrenaline junkie with a sometimes-dangerous love for heights, I signed up immediately, and convinced Scott to come along with me. Within minutes, I was harnessed up and climbing towards the sky. Having only ever experienced rock-climbing at an indoor gym, this was quite a different experience: my eyes darted around constantly, trying to find my next foot- or handhold on the crag, and I was extremely conscious of the lack of padded mats on the ground below. After about 10 minutes of struggling, Scott and I made it to the top. We snapped a couple of victory shots, giving cheesy thumbs up, before belaying to our friends down below. Once we made it back to solid ground, completely elated from the experience, we convinced Joshua to climb up as well.

Whatchu lookin’ at, bro?

We continued along the winding, dusty road further into the heart of the park, with the goal of finally reaching the famous Hell’s Gate Gorge, about 11 km away from the park’s entrance. The road was mercifully flat, giving us time to enjoy the amazing scenery around us. We passed by zebras and giraffes rehydrating at a watering hole, antelopes jumping around in the tall grass, and beautiful, colourful birds flitting around between the acacia trees. On either side of the road, huge red-brown rock formations reached towards the blue sky, looming hundreds of feet in the air over the grassy plains.

A stroll through hell.

Finally, we reached the famous Hell’s Gate Gorge. Unable to head into the gorge without a guide, we reluctantly handed over 2000 Kenyan shillings to a young man named Francis, who led us down deep into the earth. Since it was nearing the end of the dry season, the water levels within the gorge were extremely low, with only a trickling stream running along its rocky floor. However, during the wet season the gorge swells with powerful flash floods that can be up to 10 metres deep – ominous signs warning about the dangers of these floods adorned the gorge’s walls. We hiked over boulders and climbed ropes as we travelled through this geological wonder. Occasionally we would pass some hooks that had been used in the filming of the Tomb Raider movie; “Angelina Jolie,” Francis said with a nod. We saw the “Devil’s Bedroom”, a large, circular “room” carved out of the gorge by water, passed by tall waterfalls, and alarmingly hot springs emerging from the gorge’s walls. “I wash my face with this water every day,” Francis told us, praising the healing properties of the mineral waters. “That’s why I don’t have any pimples.”

Unlike our ride towards the gorge, which was filled with chatting, our return trip was mainly silent due to our exhaustion from rock climbing, biking 13 km, and hiking for two hours throughout the gorge (without lunch, I should add). We were able to add a few more animal sightings to our list, though: we passed a massive herd of buffalo and their companion white birds, and had a family of about 10 warthogs dash across our path. After what seemed like hours of cycling, the park gate appeared within our view, and we left the animals and the gorge in the dust behind us.

Last weekend’s excursion was to Hell’s Gate National Park, whose terrain had been the inspiration for the Lion King. I had started off the day bright and early, meeting my friend Joshua in Ayany before beginning the journey to Hell’s Gate National Park. Joshua is a volunteer at Carolina for Kibera, who works with the scholarships program. He’s been involved with CFK for several years, and lives in the Kibera village of Kianda with his family. He recently graduated from high school, and is currently awaiting his standardized test results that will determine what he can study in university; he is hoping to become a civil engineer, which will require top marks.

Once downtown, we met up with Scott, our fellow intern at CFK, who hails from Washington, DC’s American University. He is a charismatic and talkative guy who is passionate about healthcare in the developing world. Together, the four of us hopped on the same matatu I had taken the previous weekend to Lake Naivasha, and settled in for the winding journey into the Great Rift Valley. Once we arrived in Naivasha, we were greeted by the town’s many street touts, all of them desperately trying to get their hands on our tourist cash. Adamant about avoiding the over-charging that had plagued our previous Naivasha trip, we got Joshua to negotiate a fair price in Swahili with our potential cab driver.

Our cab driver dropped us off about 2 km away from the road, where a friend of his ran a small bike rental shop. For 500 Kenyan shillings (about $7 Canadian), I got a yellow Giant mountain bike with a bright blue seat for the entire day. After rigorously testing the brakes and buying another liter of water, we started riding off towards the gate of the national park. The road was hot, dusty, and bumpy – the dry season was in full swing, and the land was looking parched from the sweltering Kenya sun. We were sweating already by the time we arrived at the park’s front gate. There, we paid our park entrance fees, which were quite a bit cheaper than we’d anticipated: since I have a student visa for the next six months, I am considered a resident and receive heavily discounted prices for all national parks. Thanks, UBC! Then we hopped back on our bikes and set off into the midday Kenyan heat.

Joshua, Scott and I with our new zebra friends.

Not even five minutes after entering the park, we spotted our first sign of wildlife: a pack of zebras, grazing in the grass by the roadside! A coworker had told me I’d be bored of seeing zebras by the time my stay in the park was over, but staring at these gorgeous animals only a few feet away from me, I found that hard to believe. They stared at us with cautious curiosity as we edged closer for a photo op.

 Spot the rock-climbers…

Next to the munching zebras, a huge rocky tower jutted up towards the sky, looking out of place in the wide savannah. As we approached, I realized that this was a rock-climbing site – for 500 shillings we could scale the jagged rocks to the top. Being a huge adrenaline junkie with a sometimes-dangerous love for heights, I signed up immediately, and convinced Scott to come along with me. Within minutes, I was harnessed up and climbing towards the sky. Having only ever experienced rock-climbing at an indoor gym, this was quite a different experience: my eyes darted around constantly, trying to find my next foot- or handhold on the crag, and I was extremely conscious of the lack of padded mats on the ground below. After about 10 minutes of struggling, Scott and I made it to the top. We snapped a couple of victory shots, giving cheesy thumbs up, before belaying to our friends down below. Once we made it back to solid ground, completely elated from the experience, we convinced Joshua to climb up as well.

Whatchu lookin’ at, bro?

We continued along the winding, dusty road further into the heart of the park, with the goal of finally reaching the famous Hell’s Gate Gorge, about 11 km away from the park’s entrance. The road was mercifully flat, giving us time to enjoy the amazing scenery around us. We passed by zebras and giraffes rehydrating at a watering hole, antelopes jumping around in the tall grass, and beautiful, colourful birds flitting around between the acacia trees. On either side of the road, huge red-brown rock formations reached towards the blue sky, looming hundreds of feet in the air over the grassy plains.

A stroll through hell.

Finally, we reached the famous Hell’s Gate Gorge. Unable to head into the gorge without a guide, we reluctantly handed over 2000 Kenyan shillings to a young man named Francis, who led us down deep into the earth. Since it was nearing the end of the dry season, the water levels within the gorge were extremely low, with only a trickling stream running along its rocky floor. However, during the wet season the gorge swells with powerful flash floods that can be up to 10 metres deep – ominous signs warning about the dangers of these floods adorned the gorge’s walls. We hiked over boulders and climbed ropes as we travelled through this geological wonder. Occasionally we would pass some hooks that had been used in the filming of the Tomb Raider movie; “Angelina Jolie,” Francis said with a nod. We saw the “Devil’s Bedroom”, a large, circular “room” carved out of the gorge by water, passed by tall waterfalls, and alarmingly hot springs emerging from the gorge’s walls. “I wash my face with this water every day,” Francis told us, praising the healing properties of the mineral waters. “That’s why I don’t have any pimples.”

Unlike our ride towards the gorge, which was filled with chatting, our return trip was mainly silent due to our exhaustion from rock climbing, biking 13 km, and hiking for two hours throughout the gorge (without lunch, I should add). We were able to add a few more animal sightings to our list, though: we passed a massive herd of buffalo and their companion white birds, and had a family of about 10 warthogs dash across our path. After what seemed like hours of cycling, the park gate appeared within our view, and we left the animals and the gorge in the dust behind us.

A chorus of school children on a primary school’s second floor balcony called out to me as I walked along the streets of Kianda.”Mzungu! How are you!” They were all leaning up against the railing, looking sharp in their uniforms of dark blue sweaters and khakis.

“Sasa?” I called across the corrugated iron rooftops, turning the heads of a couple of nearby women washing their clothes in plastic buckets. In reply, I received a deafening, “POA!” Laughing and waving, I stepped across a ditch carrying waste down towards the river and continued along on the day’s door-to-door campaign.

This past week, CFK’s Sexual and Reproductive Health program carried out its quarterly HIV screening campaign, and I was invited to tag along to see how it’s done. I was sent off with Daniel, a trained VCT counsellor who is training to be a nutritionist, and Ali, a Youth Peer Provider (YPP) who grew up in Kibera but is currently an international relations student in Turkey. We walked out to the very edge of Kianda, where the cramped houses give way to open fields with children kicking soccer balls around. There, we began our door-to-door testing campaign. The process was pretty simple: Ali would knock at the door and say, “Hodi?”, the phrase for “May I come in” in Kiswahili. He would then start to explain who he is and what Carolina for Kibera does, before asking them if they are willing to take a 5-minute test for HIV. If they agreed (all tests are completely voluntary) Daniel would step in, donning gloves before pricking the patient’s fingertip with a tiny needle. He collected a couple of drops of blood in a capillary tube, transferred the blood onto a little plastic slide, and added some buffer to make the reaction run. Within a couple of minutes, the result would appear in a little circular display: one band for negative, two bands for positive.

As Daniel carried out the tests, Ali and I had plenty of time to chat. He is the same age as me, 21. He received a full scholarship to attend a Turkish secondary school and subsequently university. He loves his schooling in Turkey, and spoke excitedly about the places he had visited during his university years. Each summer, when he is on break from school, he comes home to Kibera and works as a Youth Peer Provider, feeling that it is his responsibility to give back to the community. He has been offered a job at the Turkish embassy in Kenya once he graduates, and while sad to be leaving Europe he looks forward to coming back to Nairobi.

Ali also told me about the changes he had seen in his years in the slum, which was absolutely fascinating to me. I recently read It Happened on the Way to War, the memoir of one of the three founders of CFK, and had been shocked by how dangerous Kibera had been in the early 00’s. Ali told me that things had been getting much better in the years since he left for school. “When I was growing up, I wouldn’t go a day without seeing someone getting attacked for stealing,” he said, referring to the “mob justice” that used to be common practice for punishing thieves. “Now things are a lot better.”

He credited the new president, Uhuru Kenyatta, and his wife for many of the positive changes the slum has seen. “This president, he actually cares about the poor,” Ali said passionately. “He has built roads into the slum and put in lights.” Ali also sung the praises of the First Lady of Kenya, who had begun a campaign called Beyond Zero to battle urban poverty in Nairobi. The program had installed small clinics in each village in Kibera, and created community police stations to help maintain security. I had seen the presence of this initiative in Kibera: one of the clinics sits next to CFK’s main office, and a community police station is visible from my front doorstep in Ayany.

About halfway through the morning, I decided to take my own HIV test. I did so partially because I wanted a woman who was nervous about the needle to feel more at ease, and partially since I felt like a hypocrite encouraging people to get tested without ever having done so myself. Within four minutes, I saw my result show up on the slide: one band. Shortly after, the woman who I was testing with received her own negative result with relief.

The campaign occurs every three months over the course of five days, in which five pairs of counsellors and YPPs knock on doors in Kianda, Gatwakera, and Soweto West. The quota for each day is 20 people tested per pair, so in total 500 people participate in VCT over the course of the week. The program isn’t perfect, though; many people are too scared of the results to get tested, despite them likely being the ones who are the most at risk. Ali also tells me that in the past, things have gotten ugly when people have received positive results: “Once a man tried to attack a female counsellor because he was angry with his result. So now we try to make sure the women don’t go out alone.”

That being said, the people we met were extremely friendly and welcoming. I used my broken Swahili to chat with them as we strolled through Kianda, which definitely helped. My Swahili is slowly improving – I bought a Swahili grammar e-book and dictionary upon my arrival, and have been spending most of my evenings dutifully studying noun classes and conjugations. However, despite my growing knowledge of the language I still find myself getting nervous and self-conscious when the time comes to speak in a public setting. Mama Mary says that I am afraid of getting things wrong, and I completely agree with her, but have decided not to let that stop me. Mistakes or not, it shows I am making an effort to get to know people, which others really appreciate.

I am truly beginning to feel at home in Kibera, and to feel comfortable with my place in the community – or lack thereof. As I walked through Kianda, I didn’t have an internal monologue raging in my head about how I wasn’t “contributing to the community” in the way I had imagined. Instead, i just took the time to learn and to take in life in Kibera. When I walk to work each day, I no longer feel uneasy about the stares directed my way; instead, I meet them with smiles and Swahili greetings. I comfortably clamour into packed matatus, introduce myself using my African name to new acquaintances, and adeptly bargain prices with cab drivers. By opening myself up, I feel like I am just now being able to see true Kibera, and even though I can’t believe it took me this long, I’m happy to finally be okay with not fitting in.

A chorus of school children on a primary school’s second floor balcony called out to me as I walked along the streets of Kianda.”Mzungu! How are you!” They were all leaning up against the railing, looking sharp in their uniforms of dark blue sweaters and khakis.

“Sasa?” I called across the corrugated iron rooftops, turning the heads of a couple of nearby women washing their clothes in plastic buckets. In reply, I received a deafening, “POA!” Laughing and waving, I stepped across a ditch carrying waste down towards the river and continued along on the day’s door-to-door campaign.

This past week, CFK’s Sexual and Reproductive Health program carried out its quarterly HIV screening campaign, and I was invited to tag along to see how it’s done. I was sent off with Daniel, a trained VCT counsellor who is training to be a nutritionist, and Ali, a Youth Peer Provider (YPP) who grew up in Kibera but is currently an international relations student in Turkey. We walked out to the very edge of Kianda, where the cramped houses give way to open fields with children kicking soccer balls around. There, we began our door-to-door testing campaign. The process was pretty simple: Ali would knock at the door and say, “Hodi?”, the phrase for “May I come in” in Kiswahili. He would then start to explain who he is and what Carolina for Kibera does, before asking them if they are willing to take a 5-minute test for HIV. If they agreed (all tests are completely voluntary) Daniel would step in, donning gloves before pricking the patient’s fingertip with a tiny needle. He collected a couple of drops of blood in a capillary tube, transferred the blood onto a little plastic slide, and added some buffer to make the reaction run. Within a couple of minutes, the result would appear in a little circular display: one band for negative, two bands for positive.

As Daniel carried out the tests, Ali and I had plenty of time to chat. He is the same age as me, 21. He received a full scholarship to attend a Turkish secondary school and subsequently university. He loves his schooling in Turkey, and spoke excitedly about the places he had visited during his university years. Each summer, when he is on break from school, he comes home to Kibera and works as a Youth Peer Provider, feeling that it is his responsibility to give back to the community. He has been offered a job at the Turkish embassy in Kenya once he graduates, and while sad to be leaving Europe he looks forward to coming back to Nairobi.

Ali also told me about the changes he had seen in his years in the slum, which was absolutely fascinating to me. I recently read It Happened on the Way to War, the memoir of one of the three founders of CFK, and had been shocked by how dangerous Kibera had been in the early 00’s. Ali told me that things had been getting much better in the years since he left for school. “When I was growing up, I wouldn’t go a day without seeing someone getting attacked for stealing,” he said, referring to the “mob justice” that used to be common practice for punishing thieves. “Now things are a lot better.”

He credited the new president, Uhuru Kenyatta, and his wife for many of the positive changes the slum has seen. “This president, he actually cares about the poor,” Ali said passionately. “He has built roads into the slum and put in lights.” Ali also sung the praises of the First Lady of Kenya, who had begun a campaign called Beyond Zero to battle urban poverty in Nairobi. The program had installed small clinics in each village in Kibera, and created community police stations to help maintain security. I had seen the presence of this initiative in Kibera: one of the clinics sits next to CFK’s main office, and a community police station is visible from my front doorstep in Ayany.

About halfway through the morning, I decided to take my own HIV test. I did so partially because I wanted a woman who was nervous about the needle to feel more at ease, and partially since I felt like a hypocrite encouraging people to get tested without ever having done so myself. Within four minutes, I saw my result show up on the slide: one band. Shortly after, the woman who I was testing with received her own negative result with relief.

The campaign occurs every three months over the course of five days, in which five pairs of counsellors and YPPs knock on doors in Kianda, Gatwakera, and Soweto West. The quota for each day is 20 people tested per pair, so in total 500 people participate in VCT over the course of the week. The program isn’t perfect, though; many people are too scared of the results to get tested, despite them likely being the ones who are the most at risk. Ali also tells me that in the past, things have gotten ugly when people have received positive results: “Once a man tried to attack a female counsellor because he was angry with his result. So now we try to make sure the women don’t go out alone.”

That being said, the people we met were extremely friendly and welcoming. I used my broken Swahili to chat with them as we strolled through Kianda, which definitely helped. My Swahili is slowly improving – I bought a Swahili grammar e-book and dictionary upon my arrival, and have been spending most of my evenings dutifully studying noun classes and conjugations. However, despite my growing knowledge of the language I still find myself getting nervous and self-conscious when the time comes to speak in a public setting. Mama Mary says that I am afraid of getting things wrong, and I completely agree with her, but have decided not to let that stop me. Mistakes or not, it shows I am making an effort to get to know people, which others really appreciate.

I am truly beginning to feel at home in Kibera, and to feel comfortable with my place in the community – or lack thereof. As I walked through Kianda, I didn’t have an internal monologue raging in my head about how I wasn’t “contributing to the community” in the way I had imagined. Instead, i just took the time to learn and to take in life in Kibera. When I walk to work each day, I no longer feel uneasy about the stares directed my way; instead, I meet them with smiles and Swahili greetings. I comfortably clamour into packed matatus, introduce myself using my African name to new acquaintances, and adeptly bargain prices with cab drivers. By opening myself up, I feel like I am just now being able to see true Kibera, and even though I can’t believe it took me this long, I’m happy to finally be okay with not fitting in.

Mount Longonot presiding over the Great Rift Valley

The matatu drove along the winding highway, shaking from both the bumpy road and the loud Swahili music blasting from the speakers. A friend and I sat cramped in the second row of the minibus with our belongings creating a little fort around us, watching out the windows as the billboards of the city gave way to the countryside. Street vendors selling Masai blankets and cobs of roasted maize blurred as we passed by.

We were off on our first trip out of the city, bound for Naivasha, a little town an hour and a half north of Nairobi. Naivasha, however, was just a quick pit stop as we headed towards our final destination. This destination appeared to the west as the matatu crested a large hill, standing out impressively amongst the parched grasslands of the Great Rift Valley. Mount Longonot, a long-inactive volcano with a crater a kilometer in diameter at its peak, was beckoning us. By the end of the day, I thought excitedly, we will have seen the view from the top.

Getting to the mountain proved to be a bit of a challenge. Since there were no matatus that would drop us off directly at the park gate, we opted for a cab ride with a friendly yet alarmingly pushy driver named Sammy. He offered to wait while we climbed the mountain and to take us to our campsite on Lake Naivasha afterwards, and while the price was a little steep, I agreed for the sake of convenience (and because it meant I wouldn’t need to carry my camping gear up the mountain).

The hike was much tougher than I had anticipated. The dusty trail leading up towards the crater had very little traction, and was on a steep incline. I found myself breathing heavily within a few minutes, my legs burning with effort and my face dripping with sweat in the Kenyan heat. Along the way, I found some more hiking companions in a school group. They were a group of girls climbing Longonot to prepare for their trek up Mount Kenya at the end of the year. Many of them were more out of shape than I was, which I must guiltily admit made me feel relieved.

A tiny area of Longonot’s massive mountaintop crater.

After losing half of my body’s water content in sweat, I finally reached the summit. The crater was even more impressive than I had imagined, tracing an almost perfect circle out of the mountain’s rock. In the forest far below I could see tree branches rustling, hinting at the presence of animals in the enclosed mini-ecosystem. Beyond the crater’s edge, the Great Rift Valley stretched out in all its yellow-green glory. I stood there at the top for a while, beaming with awe and endorphins, and exchanging high fives with my high school climbing buddies. My friend and I sat with our legs dangling into the crater, snacking on Chex Mix and looking down at the forest below. We contemplated making the two-hour walk around the crater rim, but since I had run out of water I was hesitant to spend any longer in the sweltering heat than I had to. We snapped a few top-of-the-mountain victory shots and descended back into the valley.

Lake Naivasha, where hippos are sneakily hiding out of sight

Sammy dropped us off at Carnelly’s Camp, an adorable campground on the shores of Lake Naivasha filled with expats and British vacationers. Exhausted from our trek, the first thing we did was gorge ourselves at the campsite’s restaurant. I scarfed down a massive pile of pasta with the signature Lake Naivasha crayfish, in a way that made me thankful the restaurant was empty. After dinner we pitched our tent and took a walk along the shore, spotting monkeys playing in the trees, blue herons standing elegantly in the shallows, and massive hippos peeking out from beneath the lake’s surface. It was the perfect place to end the day, and that night we fell asleep to the sounds of hippos snorting just feet away from our tent.

This weekend was a much-needed escape from the urban chaos of Nairobi. In Kibera, there are people absolutely everywhere – walking down the narrow dirt streets, crowded onto tiny matatus, calling out at you from storefronts. Even at nighttime, the slum doesn’t sleep – the sound of music, barking dogs, and rumbling trains can be heard through my open windows. Spending some time outdoors gave me a respite from the city’s chaos, which I hadn’t realized how much I really needed.  It also gave me the opportunity to see more of this wonderful country – a place with which I am slowly but steadily falling in love.

Another update on this past weekend’s adventure at Hell’s Gate National Park (the inspiration for the Lion King) coming soon!

Mount Longonot presiding over the Great Rift Valley

The matatu drove along the winding highway, shaking from both the bumpy road and the loud Swahili music blasting from the speakers. A friend and I sat cramped in the second row of the minibus with our belongings creating a little fort around us, watching out the windows as the billboards of the city gave way to the countryside. Street vendors selling Masai blankets and cobs of roasted maize blurred as we passed by.

We were off on our first trip out of the city, bound for Naivasha, a little town an hour and a half north of Nairobi. Naivasha, however, was just a quick pit stop as we headed towards our final destination. This destination appeared to the west as the matatu crested a large hill, standing out impressively amongst the parched grasslands of the Great Rift Valley. Mount Longonot, a long-inactive volcano with a crater a kilometer in diameter at its peak, was beckoning us. By the end of the day, I thought excitedly, we will have seen the view from the top.

Getting to the mountain proved to be a bit of a challenge. Since there were no matatus that would drop us off directly at the park gate, we opted for a cab ride with a friendly yet alarmingly pushy driver named Sammy. He offered to wait while we climbed the mountain and to take us to our campsite on Lake Naivasha afterwards, and while the price was a little steep, I agreed for the sake of convenience (and because it meant I wouldn’t need to carry my camping gear up the mountain).

The hike was much tougher than I had anticipated. The dusty trail leading up towards the crater had very little traction, and was on a steep incline. I found myself breathing heavily within a few minutes, my legs burning with effort and my face dripping with sweat in the Kenyan heat. Along the way, I found some more hiking companions in a school group. They were a group of girls climbing Longonot to prepare for their trek up Mount Kenya at the end of the year. Many of them were more out of shape than I was, which I must guiltily admit made me feel relieved.

A tiny area of Longonot’s massive mountaintop crater.

After losing half of my body’s water content in sweat, I finally reached the summit. The crater was even more impressive than I had imagined, tracing an almost perfect circle out of the mountain’s rock. In the forest far below I could see tree branches rustling, hinting at the presence of animals in the enclosed mini-ecosystem. Beyond the crater’s edge, the Great Rift Valley stretched out in all its yellow-green glory. I stood there at the top for a while, beaming with awe and endorphins, and exchanging high fives with my high school climbing buddies. My friend and I sat with our legs dangling into the crater, snacking on Chex Mix and looking down at the forest below. We contemplated making the two-hour walk around the crater rim, but since I had run out of water I was hesitant to spend any longer in the sweltering heat than I had to. We snapped a few top-of-the-mountain victory shots and descended back into the valley.

Lake Naivasha, where hippos are sneakily hiding out of sight

Sammy dropped us off at Carnelly’s Camp, an adorable campground on the shores of Lake Naivasha filled with expats and British vacationers. Exhausted from our trek, the first thing we did was gorge ourselves at the campsite’s restaurant. I scarfed down a massive pile of pasta with the signature Lake Naivasha crayfish, in a way that made me thankful the restaurant was empty. After dinner we pitched our tent and took a walk along the shore, spotting monkeys playing in the trees, blue herons standing elegantly in the shallows, and massive hippos peeking out from beneath the lake’s surface. It was the perfect place to end the day, and that night we fell asleep to the sounds of hippos snorting just feet away from our tent.

This weekend was a much-needed escape from the urban chaos of Nairobi. In Kibera, there are people absolutely everywhere – walking down the narrow dirt streets, crowded onto tiny matatus, calling out at you from storefronts. Even at nighttime, the slum doesn’t sleep – the sound of music, barking dogs, and rumbling trains can be heard through my open windows. Spending some time outdoors gave me a respite from the city’s chaos, which I hadn’t realized how much I really needed.  It also gave me the opportunity to see more of this wonderful country – a place with which I am slowly but steadily falling in love.

Another update on this past weekend’s adventure at Hell’s Gate National Park (the inspiration for the Lion King) coming soon!

“Mzungu, mzungu! How are you, how are you!”

I am walking along the street behind CFK when I pass by a group of schoolchildren, standing outside their school’s gates in their forest-green uniforms. As I stop to greet them, they swarm me, hands outstretched, all very insistent on finding out how I’m doing. I laugh and say, “Sasa?” the Swahili word for “now” that is often used as an informal greeting in Kibera. “Poa!” the children reply, looking both surprised and delighted that I was speaking their local slang.

After handing out a few more handshakes, I am able to extricate myself from the mob of children and continue down toward the railroad tracks.  I passed by the same huge garbage pile that I had seen on our journey to Taka ni Pato. Today, a couple more garbage fires are burning, and I sputter as the smoke fills mt lungs. The children walking by don’t seem to notice the smoke (potentially because of their proximity to the ground), nor do the dogs picking their way through the smouldering trash.

I am headed to Soweto West, a village in Kibera that I have not yet visited. Were I alone, this would not bode well for me – there are no street signs in Kibera, or even street names, for that matter. The dirt paths wind around in a seemingly never-ending maze, with mud houses sometimes packed so close that there is barely room for one person to squeeze through. If I ever got lost in Kibera, I would probably never find my way out. Luckily, I have Cathrine today as my guide.

Cathrine is a project worker with the Sexual and Reproductive Health department at CFK. One of the program’s main focuses is maternal health – teaching mothers in Kibera how to take care of themselves and their babies throughout their pregnancy. This is done through a system called care groups, which are weekly meetings of 10 to 15 women, run by a Community Health Worker. We are on our way to one of the many Soweto care groups now.

We reach the road dividing Soweto West from Kianda, and soon spot a middle-aged woman in a long green short-sleeved dress waving at us. She has crow’s feet that are intensified by her warm smile, and her graying black hair is pulled up into a tight bun. She introduces herself to as Angela, shaking my hand. “Karibu, you’re welcome,” she greets me. She then leads Cathrine and me to a bright blue building on the main road, which consists of one very tiny, very dark room. Inside, a pregnant woman named Rose welcomes us to her daycare.

Eight children are taking a nap, lying widthwise on a twin bed in the corner. Another little girl who couldn’t be more than six holds a sleeping baby in her arms. She smiles at us curiously as we walk in. We take a seat on one of the two benches set up along the walls. Within a few minutes, the pregnant women begin arriving – about eight of them in total. Cathrine introduces me and another intern in Swahili. I am able to pick out the word wanafunzi – students. “Jina langu Campbell”, I say in broken Swahili, immediately wishing I had used my Luo name instead. After the introductions are completed, Angela sits on a chair in the middle of the room and leads the discussion. Today they are discussing warning signs of pregnancy. Cathrine quietly translates the rapid Swahili in my ear.

Rose is the first to speak. She has issues with her cervix remaining open, and has had three miscarriages as a result. She’s now worried that it might be happening again. While I didn’t understand her words, I could see the pain in her eyes as she spoke about losing her children. Angela recommends she go to Tabitha Clinic to get some medical attention. Another woman is concerned about the baby always lying on one side. She says she hasn’t felt it move in a day or so. A more experienced mother tells her not to worry, that the same thing had happened to her. Then one day, the baby shifted and before she knew it, she was in labour.

I feel uncomfortable being in this room. It wasn’t the heat, or the children staring at me, or the details about womens’ cervixes. I felt like I didn’t belong there – and, really, I didn’t. I’m not from Kibera. I don’t know anything about pregnancies. I don’t even speak the same language. This unease was compounded by the fact that the other intern was snapping pictures of the group throughout the meeting. Cathrine had asked her to take photographs of the care group for the CFK website beforehand. Even though the women had consented, it felt wrong, almost voyeuristic, taking photographs of them as they shared the fears and struggles of their pregnancies. I tensed up every time I heard the shutter click.

As we leave, I shake everyone’s hand. Rose, the young mother who owns the daycare, clutches my hand with both of hers and looks up at me. “I am so happy you are here,” she says, as though she had been reading my mind throughout the entire meeting. “Asante sana.” I thanked her, blinking back the tears stinging my eyes, and stepped back out into the Kibera heat.

Angela insists on us visiting her home before we return to the CFK office. She guides us through a street behind the daycare, and opens a small gate into an even smaller alleyway. She gestures to a door on the left, and I duck beneath the low doorway to enter my first real Kibera home. Angela’s entire was about the size of my first-year dorm room. Pieces of white lacy cloth draped the walls, presumably to cover the mud walls lying underneath, and another piece of cloth hung towards the back of the room, partitioning the space into a bedroom and a living room. I sat down on one of the two small couches, whose cushions were as solid as a rock. There was no kitchen, just a small charcoal stove used for cooking. A large jerry can in the corner provides the water for the home. A miniscule TV sits on a shelf in the corner, upon which Angela’s youngest daughter, Lucy, is watching a wedding show. Angela introduces us warmly as her “new friends”. We stay for chai, milky Kenyan tea, and Angela tells us about her family. When we finally leave to go back to work, she urges us to come back anytime.

Rose’s genuine welcome and Angela’s hospitality made me realize that much of the insecurity I felt about not being wanted in Kibera was coming from myself, not from the people around me. My fear of being judged or of people thinking I don’t belong had been keeping me from really integrating into the community, from getting to know the people of Kibera – the reason I came here in the first place. Truth be told, I will never fit in completely. It’s time for me to accept that and move on.

I am a mzungu, always have been always will be. I will never completely understand the lives of those who live in Kibera. They see the world through a totally different lens than I do, filled with experiences and memories and tribalism acquired in a world far away from my own. But still, I’m realizing, the fact that I’ll never understand shouldn’t keep me from trying.

“Mzungu, mzungu! How are you, how are you!”

I am walking along the street behind CFK when I pass by a group of schoolchildren, standing outside their school’s gates in their forest-green uniforms. As I stop to greet them, they swarm me, hands outstretched, all very insistent on finding out how I’m doing. I laugh and say, “Sasa?” the Swahili word for “now” that is often used as an informal greeting in Kibera. “Poa!” the children reply, looking both surprised and delighted that I was speaking their local slang.

After handing out a few more handshakes, I am able to extricate myself from the mob of children and continue down toward the railroad tracks.  I passed by the same huge garbage pile that I had seen on our journey to Taka ni Pato. Today, a couple more garbage fires are burning, and I sputter as the smoke fills mt lungs. The children walking by don’t seem to notice the smoke (potentially because of their proximity to the ground), nor do the dogs picking their way through the smouldering trash.

I am headed to Soweto West, a village in Kibera that I have not yet visited. Were I alone, this would not bode well for me – there are no street signs in Kibera, or even street names, for that matter. The dirt paths wind around in a seemingly never-ending maze, with mud houses sometimes packed so close that there is barely room for one person to squeeze through. If I ever got lost in Kibera, I would probably never find my way out. Luckily, I have Cathrine today as my guide.

Cathrine is a project worker with the Sexual and Reproductive Health department at CFK. One of the program’s main focuses is maternal health – teaching mothers in Kibera how to take care of themselves and their babies throughout their pregnancy. This is done through a system called care groups, which are weekly meetings of 10 to 15 women, run by a Community Health Worker. We are on our way to one of the many Soweto care groups now.

We reach the road dividing Soweto West from Kianda, and soon spot a middle-aged woman in a long green short-sleeved dress waving at us. She has crow’s feet that are intensified by her warm smile, and her graying black hair is pulled up into a tight bun. She introduces herself to as Angela, shaking my hand. “Karibu, you’re welcome,” she greets me. She then leads Cathrine and me to a bright blue building on the main road, which consists of one very tiny, very dark room. Inside, a pregnant woman named Rose welcomes us to her daycare.

Eight children are taking a nap, lying widthwise on a twin bed in the corner. Another little girl who couldn’t be more than six holds a sleeping baby in her arms. She smiles at us curiously as we walk in. We take a seat on one of the two benches set up along the walls. Within a few minutes, the pregnant women begin arriving – about eight of them in total. Cathrine introduces me and another intern in Swahili. I am able to pick out the word wanafunzi – students. “Jina langu Campbell”, I say in broken Swahili, immediately wishing I had used my Luo name instead. After the introductions are completed, Angela sits on a chair in the middle of the room and leads the discussion. Today they are discussing warning signs of pregnancy. Cathrine quietly translates the rapid Swahili in my ear.

Rose is the first to speak. She has issues with her cervix remaining open, and has had three miscarriages as a result. She’s now worried that it might be happening again. While I didn’t understand her words, I could see the pain in her eyes as she spoke about losing her children. Angela recommends she go to Tabitha Clinic to get some medical attention. Another woman is concerned about the baby always lying on one side. She says she hasn’t felt it move in a day or so. A more experienced mother tells her not to worry, that the same thing had happened to her. Then one day, the baby shifted and before she knew it, she was in labour.

I feel uncomfortable being in this room. It wasn’t the heat, or the children staring at me, or the details about womens’ cervixes. I felt like I didn’t belong there – and, really, I didn’t. I’m not from Kibera. I don’t know anything about pregnancies. I don’t even speak the same language. This unease was compounded by the fact that the other intern was snapping pictures of the group throughout the meeting. Cathrine had asked her to take photographs of the care group for the CFK website beforehand. Even though the women had consented, it felt wrong, almost voyeuristic, taking photographs of them as they shared the fears and struggles of their pregnancies. I tensed up every time I heard the shutter click.

As we leave, I shake everyone’s hand. Rose, the young mother who owns the daycare, clutches my hand with both of hers and looks up at me. “I am so happy you are here,” she says, as though she had been reading my mind throughout the entire meeting. “Asante sana.” I thanked her, blinking back the tears stinging my eyes, and stepped back out into the Kibera heat.

Angela insists on us visiting her home before we return to the CFK office. She guides us through a street behind the daycare, and opens a small gate into an even smaller alleyway. She gestures to a door on the left, and I duck beneath the low doorway to enter my first real Kibera home. Angela’s entire was about the size of my first-year dorm room. Pieces of white lacy cloth draped the walls, presumably to cover the mud walls lying underneath, and another piece of cloth hung towards the back of the room, partitioning the space into a bedroom and a living room. I sat down on one of the two small couches, whose cushions were as solid as a rock. There was no kitchen, just a small charcoal stove used for cooking. A large jerry can in the corner provides the water for the home. A miniscule TV sits on a shelf in the corner, upon which Angela’s youngest daughter, Lucy, is watching a wedding show. Angela introduces us warmly as her “new friends”. We stay for chai, milky Kenyan tea, and Angela tells us about her family. When we finally leave to go back to work, she urges us to come back anytime.

Rose’s genuine welcome and Angela’s hospitality made me realize that much of the insecurity I felt about not being wanted in Kibera was coming from myself, not from the people around me. My fear of being judged or of people thinking I don’t belong had been keeping me from really integrating into the community, from getting to know the people of Kibera – the reason I came here in the first place. Truth be told, I will never fit in completely. It’s time for me to accept that and move on.

I am a mzungu, always have been always will be. I will never completely understand the lives of those who live in Kibera. They see the world through a totally different lens than I do, filled with experiences and memories and tribalism acquired in a world far away from my own. But still, I’m realizing, the fact that I’ll never understand shouldn’t keep me from trying.