The Slums: Part 1

I didn’t write anything last night because I couldn’t. I had the opportunity, but not the words. In order to help ourselves recover from jet lag faster, we packed our day full of visits to our various host ministries, including Tumaini Clinic in Korogocho slum, Tunari International, and Zana Africa. I was excited but nervous, although I knew the day would be amazing.

I just wasn’t prepared.

I can’t really explain to you how being in two of Nairobi’s biggest slums made me feel. I can’t communicate the smells, or describe the color of the sludge that ran down the crevices of the narrow streets.

I can’t even show you photos, because I didn’t take any. Not yet. I think I still need to wrap my mind around what a slum is, what it means.

When we first drove into Korogocho, I wasn’t aware what was happening. One minute we were on a pretty normal road, and then we started to see piles of garbage dotted with birds picking out what they wanted. Then instead of birds there were dogs, and finally, people. All digging through the trash together, all fighting to survive.

I didn’t notice it at the time, but there were vultures circling overhead.

As we drove in our hired car, the streets grew more and more narrow. Our driver told us that the main road was built a few years ago as the beginning of a rehabilitation project for the area. But, while the road attempted to lead the residents of the slum to new and better places, instead the shacks just moved in closer and the road became a marketplace/main street of sorts, swallowed up by the slum. The type of place with a mix of beggars and shops, ditches and stray dogs, where an American girl is entirely without the option of being discreet.

We found the Tunari clinic down a fairly wide side road, one of the nicer areas, we were told. Although permanent structures are not allowed in the slum, the clinic was built 2002 to help the local population. Its high ceilings, strong walls and welcoming windows are a stark contrast to the neighboring buildings. The clinic offers testing and vaccinations, in addition to common, family practice sort of medicine. It’s main operation, however, is a neonatal facility. The clinic is run by an Australian doctor, whose plan is for the clinic to be entirely self-sufficient, run without outside aid from either local or national supporters. This model is rare for such a ministry, but so far it seems to work.

We toured the facility (no babies were being born at the time, unfortunately), and then had Chai with the staff. They talked about how much of a blessing the clinic was to the area and how it had grown from a single dank and dark room to a thriving ministry. While the clinic had many challenges, all of the staff members said that their success was simply existing and helping in any small way, instead of providing the most excellent medical care in Nairobi. That goal was second; it always came after bringing stability and helping the community to thrive.

During a break in the conversation, a few of us peered out the window to look at the rest of the slum as it sprawled into the hazy distance. I looked, but didn’t take it all in. In my mind I wasn’t looking at houses, schools, and businesses. I didn’t even know what I was looking at. Nothing in my experience could help me define what I saw. Barry pointed out black smoke in the distance ... the mark of the city dump as its refuse leaked into the rest of temporary city.

We took a walk with the Australian doctor, Joe, who took us down the main street. As we walked, nearly every child we saw yelled “Hi! How are you?” at once, proud of their English. Our appearance and their cries left little possibility that we wouldn’t be noticed. The staff told us that we could take our cameras if we wished, but none of us did. As I talked to our guide, John I felt shame as we walked and partially kept my head down.

I’m not sure why I did it. I think I tried to convince myself that it was because I didn’t want the people to feel like they were in a zoo. I wanted to show them that I wasn’t there to gawk at them openmouthed, but instead to give them dignity. And maybe that was part of it.

But I also couldn’t face myself. Every step I took around rotting garbage, every time a beggar placed their hands out and I refused, each pair of eyes I felt staring at me made me feel entitled and proud. It made me feel like an imposter who said they loved the world, but had done nothing to truly help it. I was ashamed of the fact that I wanted to escape the smells and the hands and most of all the children’s eyes. I wanted to gather them all into my arms and run away at the same time.

Was this the attitude of someone who wanted to change the world?

We returned to the clinic and crammed ourselves into the car that would take us to Mayfield guest house (where we’ve been staying since we arrived). I sat in silence while everyone else talked and processed what they’d seen.

As we drove away I still felt like hiding. Hiding from the problems that were there, hiding from the guilt I had, but mostly hiding from the fact that I consciously wasn’t letting myself emotionally process what I’d seen. That I stupidly pretended like I was “tough enough” to handle it while my friends heart’s broke around me.

I tried to journal when we got back and came up with a stilted paragraph. Then nothing.

I just sat staring at the page, feeling overwhelmed. Not angry or upset, just lost.

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