port victoria, part I

we begun our journey to the rural village on sunday. saturday night we left eldoret with a bang--full of dancing and cheap rum. sunday morning we said good-bye to our good buddy mark (he's off to madagasgar) and hit the open highway with our hangovers. the ride on our 60-passenger "Moi University" bus was nothing short of hilarious. my bike almost fell out from underneath the bus twice, we needed to stop to put on windshield wipers in the rain, and one of the windows is covered by cardboard (naturally, a music video will come soon)

kayla and i with phillip and our professor outside of the bus

we moved into our guest house and spent the next two days touring hospitals. yesterday i went to a missionary clinic. it was dead quiet by 11am. so i sat around, sitting under the tree and drawing maps of the U.S. and playing with the few babies that stayed around. at one point i had this conversation:

me: "is there a bathroom i can use?"

nurse: "um, let me consult with the other woman."

{goes and talks in swahili for about a minute, comes back}

nurse: "so, you want to take a bath?"

me: "ohh, ha! no. just the latrine, please."

nurse: "oh, ok! this way!"

the costs painted on the wall

the operating theater

the gorgeous, daily sunset from the front door of my room

today, we went to a rural clinic 2 hours away. we sat around for awhile, talking to the one clinical officer and taking tours. there are 3 nurses for a catchment area of 21,000 people. their most recent delivery of anti-biotics was in july, and they're out by now. the bus ride is bumpy and little children yell in a chorus, "how are you! fine!"

when we walked into the pediatric ward there was a little boy who had just died of malaria. the mother walked by us with her hands on her head and just threw herself on the ground in front of the hospital and started to wail. she cried out for the remaining 45 minutes we were there. they had gone to two facilities in the area and both were out of the necessary anti-malarial medication. so, this helpless 4-year old boy died. it was difficult to actually witness the statistics i've read about. when we asked the public health officers when the father would come to console the mother, he said it was best to just let her grieve. then he chuckled. kenyans have a different habit of laughing in the face of despair. it's a nervous chuckle and i'm not sure if it's because they know more hardship than i do, so laughter may be the best medicine.

in other news, the bugs in my room are a force to be reckoned with. and my bathroom is a nice toilet (hole)/shower combo: