Special Posting – Julie in Kenya

Julie has sent me some e-mails giving details of her trip to a Kenyan orphanage. Here is her story so far – I’m not embarrassed to say I have been crying as I read them. Photos can be viewed at the following URL (note - the last three photos were taken at an animal sanctuary she visited when she had a long stopover at Nairobi): http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/tom.cupples/Kenya1#.

Monday - we wanted to visit some of Kisumu's primary schools where the Isaiah Trust sponsors some of the most vulnerable children who are studying to pass their KPCE (Kenyan Primary Certificate of Education) which the children need in order to move up to secondary school. Typically, we would be invited into the principal's office and be told that the majority of pupils were orphans. In Kenya, every child is entitled to an education but what initially prevented a general education for all was the cost of the uniform which was mandatory. When children, through various means started wearing uniforms, a new ruling insisted on leather shoes, which again kept the attendance numbers down. The latest issue is that the government has now stopped providing textbooks which is not so much a problem in the primary schools but is certainly not conducive for learning in the secondary schools.

The first Principal we met explained that a further change in the rules surrounding education meant that each child had to now have an official Birth Certificate in order to register for KPCE - somewhat of a problem when a child had been orphaned at an early age and had no known relatives.

Each of the Isaiah Trust's children in the schools, 'our' children, were called before the Principal. Each in turn shook our hand and thanked us. Some were shy, others we knew from church the day before. They glanced at their feet as they were asked what their best subjects were. In a couple of the schools we joined the child in their classroom. The biggest class was 107 children. As we entered the class, they would rise and chant in unison, ‘Good Morning Visitors, how are you’? Each individual child is so polite.

All of the teaching staff deserve respect. The best ones knew every detail of every child that they had taught. When asked what they needed to continue their good work, they stated that they needed exercise books and pencils.

Tonight we were invited out to a fellowship meeting in one of the slum areas hosted by 17 year old Paul. Paul has been lucky in respect that an elder in the slums who was once a street boy himself is letting a dwelling to Paul and his younger brother, Daniel. Paul suffers from epilepsy so is limited to the kind of work that he can find. He chooses to collect anything of value from the dump and sell it on. This meagre existence barely sustains him and his brother. Their slum dwelling was an airless room with no running water or electricity. His brother was too ill - suffering from Malaria - to attend the meeting, barely showing his face around the door. Ten or so neighbours attended the fellowship meeting each with their own tale of hardship. One requested help with paying for medication for his brother who had been diagnosed with Typhoid. We prayed for the elder, Stephen, who at 82 had survived on the streets all of his life. Now owning a property of his own, he 'fostered' or rather kept an eye of boys with the same predicament.

Tuesday - and I still have Paul and his brother heavy in my heart. Our group also met Violet. I was drawn to Violet simply through her name and my association with our village at home, Tourettes sur Loup (the City of Violets) and its Violet festival every year.

In many respects, it is harder for the girls than the boys. Violet was the same age as Paul (17) but the sole carer for her 6 siblings. She too lived in the slums but had been put through some education by the Isaiah Trust. Violet was now at the Rotary College and was in her first week of a two year tailoring course. In her classroom, she proudly showed us the small blue dress she had hand sewn for her exam. Her tutor was very pleased with what she had done in one week! The girls shared three ancient Singer treadle machines which reminded me so much of my Aunty Lil. Violet was learning how to cut out paper patterns drawing them out on old paper bags. I promised to get her some more material as this would be her major expense during her course work.

Next on to another secondary school. Here we met Collins, Wycliffe and Zablon. All three boys had been sponsored by the Isaiah Trust for some time and here we saw a quiet confidence. Collins was ranked 4th in his year and well on track with excellent Maths and Science results to achieve his dream of becoming a pilot. The school's motto was The Sky's the limit. Wycliffe had his sights set on becoming an engineer and Zablon, keen to go on to study Political Science. I have no doubts that these boys determination will get them where they want to be and I look forward to following their individual efforts!

Onto another school and another three boys. Having been so happy to see confidence exuding from the last three I was instantly drawn to Alex. What was his situation? I talked to him. In our western culture it would be totally inappropriate to ask about your problems in a first meeting. Alex's spirit looked totally broken in spite of being in school. Where we were asking the others about what they wanted to achieve, Alex was locked in his problems. His father was a drunkard but worse than that, the only work available for him was emptying faeces from the slum toilets. If Alex didn't help him then he would be beaten.

I was overcome with emotion discussing Alex's situation with Moses. All Alex wanted was a place to concentrate on his studies. How much would it cost to move him away from his father? Moses said that a slum dwelling similar to those we saw the night before would cost as little as 500 Kenyan Shillings a month. To provide a supervised house for 5 or 6 boys similar to Alex would cost 5000. In monetary terms, 6 lives could be changed for as little as 50 euros a month - it was the need for this pitiful amount of money that could so change their lives that affected me so deeply.

Leaving the school behind, we returned to Covenant House to change into long trousers and long sleeves in an effort to deter the mosquitos. Tonight, we attended a fellowship group at Kachok, the rubbish tip.

We were dropped off near to Nakumat (Tesco equivalent) and walked over toward the sports stadium. Kachok covers the intervening ground. We walked through undergrowth behind the stadium until we reached what previously had been a dwelling. It consisted of 2 concrete, windowless rooms with a tin roof, except that only a third of the roofing still remained. Three wooden benches held approximately 20 people. It was raining and the lucky ones had some shelter. The service had already started. Biblical quotations endorsed them to 'think big' - with God on your side you are never alone. The boys and girls, some of whom we recognised, were sharing their benches with the street kids. Emmaculate sat next to me - immaculate from that morning, still dressed in her school uniform. She was in sharp contrast to the young boy who had followed me there - his clothes were as dark as his skin though once they may have been green or blue. His t-shirt was full of holes and his denim shorts were ripped from the thigh to the knee. He was barefoot and about the size of a 6 year old. His eyes told me he could have been 14 or 15. I tried to make some form of contact with him. Most kids are bilingual in Kiswahili with English being the common second language, particularly if they have had some sort of schooling. This child was either shy, petrified of a Mzungu (white person), or just too hungry and weak to attempt to talk. As he sat on a bench sandwiched between others like him, I felt a desperate need to reach out. But how?

The fellowship service was prayerful, inspirational and musical with Moses playing his guitar. We sing in Kiswahil and considering how self conscious I was only two days earlier, now I love to sing in their language. Tim (the co-founder of the Isaiah Trust) talked about how a rope needs three strands to be strong - you, me and God. When I was introduced, I emphasised what he had said. If you are alone, then find a friend and with God you will be three. I urged any child who felt alone to come forward to one of us and we would try to help.

By the time the service had finished, we were in complete blackness, wet through from the rain from the roof and no doubt, had collected numerous mosquito bites., None of this registered as bread and juice was handed out to the street boys who politely queued to take their only meal of the day.

We started the trek back to the stadium. Because we had come straight from our school visiting, none of us were dressed for the weather. My flip flops were useless in the undergrowth and mud and I was well aware that there were numerous trenches (filled with who knows what) alongside our path. Hesitantly I took my first few steps and as I began to slide and fall, I was grasped by Emmaculate on one side and another helping hand on the other. I looked to see who it was. Noticably within those attending was a woman and child. Of all the 'gifts' that I brought, each were given to Moses to hand out where needed. One of her other daughters had received a cotton dress and some underwear. To the baby in the woman's arms, we had given a small cuddly toy. These children have nothing to their name other than the clothes they stand up in. The baby reached out for the brightly coloured 'dinosaur' and smiled - she was still young enough to be carried everywhere though her mother claimed that she was 2 years old. With the child wrapped up tightly on her back, she escorted me with a strong hand back to the Stadium.

As we prepared to get into the jeep, I hugged each of the boys in turn - such bags of bones...one boy whispered up at me. I have a problem, he asked...Michael said he experienced so much pain in his eyes that when this happened he could not see. What a courageous boy to ask me, a mzungu - for sure he had been listening to the preaching. I called over Moses who questioned him more closely in his own language. Medication and doctors are out of the question for slum dwellers, for the street kids, it’s impossible. John was also called over. John receives a small salary from the Isaiah Trust to act as a kind of social worker. Michael would need to go to the hospital and see a specialist consultant . Easter weekend is approaching so arrangements have been made for Michael to be taken to the hospital on the following Monday. I have asked to go too.

An Update From Le Brin d’Olivier

Well the weather here is strange at the moment – one day sunny, the next rainy, the next sunny, the next thunderstorms. It makes it difficult to do anything (that’s my excuse). The ground doesn’t dry out so gardening is out of the question and I’m re-gravelling my drive but the gravel is soaking wet which doubles its weight and whilst I’d like to build up my six-pack for the summer, I don’t want to overdo it!

J went off on her travels to the Kenyan orphanage last week. Her rather convoluted trip took her from Nice to Manchester and then on to Paris before catching a flight to Nairobi. During the day’s stopover there she visited an elephant orphanage and fed some giraffes by holding treats in her mouth. She said it was disgusting – I never knew giraffes had blue tongues but she assures me they have!

The next leg of the trip was an internal flight to Kinsumu where the children's orphanage is located. Total travel time was some 40 hours and she says she never slept a wink, poor thing.

We’ve had regular updates and I’ve said I’ll give my blog over to her when she eventually gets something written but she appears to be having a wonderful, if emotional time out there, pouring love all over the kids who have lost their parents. An excerpt here from her Facebook posting:

The real street urchins are barefooted and in rags. To have such a broken spirit aged 7 just tears you apart...two or three turned up at our meeting, no eye contact, but so wanting to be amongst us. We sat in a windowless, roofless slum dwelling in the rain and tried to talk to them about dreaming 'big' until darkness fell. We came home to our evening meal and bed - I have no idea how or where they are sleeping.

Back home, my kids are a model of good behaviour. Despite the clocks going forward they still get up in time for school and go off with a smile on their faces – well Guy does! Maybe it’s because this is the last week before the Easter holidays?

J in her ‘caring’ way had lined up all sorts of people to feed us and make sure we’re being looked after and it’s been non-stop. On Sunday, Sam and her boys came round before we all headed next door where Tan and Angie hosted an impromptu terrace party and then on Tuesday, John and Helen came round for dinner bringing all sorts of food goodies with them. It was back to Tan and Angie’s on Wednesday for probably the best lasagne I’ve ever eaten.

I’ve got lunch in the village today (Friday) with a couple of friends, followed by a football day which I’m hosting on Saturday where my bar will get its first visitors of the year and then on Monday, the kids and I are having an Easter lunch at John and Linda’s down the hill. And then on Wednesday I think we’re off to Dave and Sarah’s although as the invitation was given when I was a bit tipsy the other night, I’m not quite sure. David, Tan – help me here!

As is usual when J goes on a trip, I am determined to empty the freezer by the time she gets back but with all these invitations to eat out it looks like most of the unrecognizable ‘stuff’ in unmarked plastic bags will still be there when she returns to Le Brin. Last night in a fit of culinary inspiration, I made the kids Fajitas Guadalajara – don’t ask!

That’s about it. Must get on with my ironing now. A pair of jeans does me a week – why do they need a clean pair every day?

A Hung Parliament ?

It’s looking increasingly likely that there will be no overall majority when the election runs its course in May. From a position of absolute strength a couple of months ago, the Tories are now struggling to keep ahead in the polls.

How has it come to this?

Who would vote those lying, incompetent Labourites back into power when they’ve virtually destroyed Britain? They’ve turned, what was a very strong economy, in 1997 when they took power, into that of a third world country. Probably the best measure of how well a country is run is not the amount of debt the country has run up (a lot of that is due to the bailout of the banks which ultimately will turn out to be a necessary and profitable move) but the amount a country spends on running itself.

In 1997 the proportion of GDP spent on running the UK was 36% - a world beating figure. Now it is 52%. This has been caused by Labour’s ‘interventionist’ policies and outrageous spending, much of which has been expended on so-called ‘managers’ running the NHS, education and other public facing departments.

Let’s put it very simply. When I was a manager at IBM and BT, I was virtually left alone to run my department. A meeting once a month to check my sales figures and that was it. If I was in the NHS (to take the popular example), I would have had several managers checking my figures daily and would have been involved in interminable meetings, all taking invaluable time from my real job – to sell things.

Anyway, getting back to the election battle - the Tories have messed it up big time. Only latterly are they attacking Gordon Brown’s disastrous mistakes when he was Chancellor; selling Britain’s stockpile of Gold at the absolute bottom of the market, raiding the pensions funds of dividend tax credits which took something approaching £100 billion out of the funds of pensioners (like me) and completely destroyed probably the world’s best pension system. I wouldn’t have cared if Brown had used that £100 billion to improve the nation but it was just squandered away. He’s screwed the armed forces at a time when they need maximum support and filled the country with immigrants soaking up every cent (sorry, penny) the country throws at them.

Last weekend Labour started attacking George Osborne, the Tories man for Chancellor as weak, ineffective and ‘shrill’. True, he doesn’t come across well but does Brown? Did Brown fill the country with hope when he became Chancellor in 1997? I’m afraid we’re down to personalities again but if the country chooses Labour ahead of the Tories on personality alone, it’ll reap what it sowed.

So what of a hung Parliament? The pound will sink against all major currencies, the stock market will fall and the wider financial markets will take a dim view that the UK cannot sort itself out and the three parties will argue about what policies to introduce – it’ll be the UK managed by committee and we all know what happens when committees get involved – nothing! If you are a non-UK taxpayer it’ll be interesting however because we’ve not had a ‘coalition’ government for decades and the Liberals will finally get a say. Will they help or hinder? Will they get caught in the headlights like frightened bunnies? Only time will tell.

Greece – Think It Doesn’t Affect You ?

If Greece was a company they’d be declared bankrupt and the administrators would be called in to try and salvage what they could. How has this wonderful country which I holidayed in for nine years in a row ended up in this situation?

I have to admit it was a puzzle to me as I was there (well – Corfu, one of its islands) only last year and despite the fact that the infrastructure is a bit basic, the locals seem to live a good life – and there’s the hub of it. The Greeks only pay tax when they feel like it and if they do declare their earnings, they generally grossly underestimate them. Even when caught, there’s a good chance the tax official will take a bribe to cancel the tax evasion penalty!

The statistics show that Greek revenue from income tax is a measly 4.5% compared to the EU average of 8%. Even as Greece’s GDP (the output of the country) was growing at 4% a year, its tax revenues were falling, which in economic parlance is virtually impossible!

Go into a garage to pay a bill and ask for a receipt and the price will go up – because the garage owner will have to declare the income. Apparently, half the doctors in the country declare an annual income of less than €30,000 which is a laugh given what you have to pay them when you’re ill on holiday.

And that’s it in a nutshell – Greece has been spending just like the UK Government only without the tax revenues to support it. The international money markets have spotted this and the price Greece has to pay to borrow in the money markets has risen to the point where they just cannot afford the interest payments. Do they default, i.e. not pay their creditors and be classified along with African and South American countries who regularly refuse to pay their bills? Or do they go cap-in-hand to the EU with the begging bowl?

Well, good old Greece has been playing hard ball, threatening to quit the EU and throw the single currency concept into utter chaos. Germany and France, who would suffer most if Greece pulled out of the EU, are desperately trying to come up with a solution but at the end of the day, they’ll have to dig deep into their pockets and bail the Greeks out. And, any billions they spend helping keep the doctors in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed will inevitably filter through to the good old UK because France and Germany will argue for a ‘re-balancing’ of the EU budget and we’ll have to pay more.

Finally – some career advice. Become a doctor in Greece – it’s a very well paid job!

PS - Nigel is up to his tricks again. Find out what he's been up to at http://monaconigel.blogspot.com/

No Women And Are You On The Buses ?

When looking at Guy’s possible Lyceé down in Antibes, I remarked that he might have to get some ‘digs’ because the college was so far from home. ‘What’s digs Thomas’? he asked.

I explained that digs down here was the equivalent of renting a room in a house. ‘Have you ever been in digs Thomas’? he continued.

Have I been in digs Guy – let me tell you ………………………….

I was 17 and I’d been living in a cupboard at my aunt’s house in the west end of Glasgow. OK it was a big cupboard but it was still a cupboard. I had started to look for some larger premises when I found out that my employer, Rootes the carmaker, would double my wages if I had to stay in digs in order to reduce travelling time to the factory, so I said thanks to my aunt and wandered down Dumbarton Road looking in the various newspaper shops for ‘rooms to let’. I found what looked like a suitable room (on paper) and headed off to Rosevale Street which was about a 15 minute walk from my aunt’s house.

‘Knock, knock’. The door opened about 2 inches and a wizened old woman looked through the gap. ‘Yes – what do you want’? ‘I’ve come about the room’. ‘Yer no on the buses are yeh’? (there was a large bus garage beside the house)‘No – I’m not on the buses – I work in Paisley’. ‘That’s alright then – yeh can come in’. And so started two wonderful years in my life in Rosevale St.

The ‘interview’ was quite surreal. Mrs McLean who must’ve been in her eighties and who was four foot nothing, laid down the rules. “It’ll be £2.50 a week. That’s more than I normally charge but you’ll have a room to yourself. I’ll do you a cooked breakfast, sandwich box for lunch and a 3-course dinner at night.” I took all this in and then said, I wouldn’t need a lunch box. ‘It won’t be any cheaper she said’. I laughed as at £2.50 a week, the ‘digs’ were a bargain. “I’ll get the room re-decorated before you move in”, she said.

I moved in a week later to find a couple of Irish builders sharing a room across the corridor which was about a quarter the size of mine. Paddy and Mick (yes really) would get up at 5am, have breakfast, come home at 6pm, wash and have dinner with me. They never said a word and then went to bed about 7.30 and then got up at 5am again. What a life!

My breakfast typically took the form of orange juice, cereals, two fried pork chops or a steak and a couple of fried eggs. Oh and with 3 slices of toast! After a couple of days, I had to tell Mrs McLean that I would be happy with just the cereals. ‘The room won’t be any cheaper’, she said.

I loved it there. I usually took her flowers on a Friday night and on a Saturday when she entertained some of her lady friends in her main room and they’d all be drinking their little glasses of whisky, I’d present her with a half bottle. She thought I was a saint but in reality with Rootes giving me £7.50 a week for my ‘digs’, I felt guilty that I was getting away for a third of that.

And then the trouble started.

After a couple of months, I said to Mrs McLean that I was unhappy paying £2.50 a week. ‘Oh – I don’t want to lose you – shall we say £2 a week from now on’, she said. When I told her that I wanted her to take £4 a week she was beside herself. The problem was she put the rent for Pat and Mick up to £3.50 and they went ballistic. Every night at dinner I’d get the pair of them having a go at me, so in the end I had to tell Mrs McLean that as their room was tiny, it was unfair to charge them virtually the same as me. She relented and peace broke out for a while but only until my fiancée, Fiona (who was to become my wife) started to come to Mrs Mclean’s.

Mrs McLean liked her from the start and was happy for Fiona to visit me. Tea and biscuits would be delivered and occasionally a couple of glasses of sherry would be handed into the room.

Problem was Paddy and Mick had been told – ‘absolutely no women in your room - especially if they’re on the buses’!

Dr Fang

On Friday, just as J was starting her trip from England to Kenya, she’d left me with instructions to take Kitty to the doctors. I duly turned up at the appointed hour of 11am and at 11.30 he appeared in the waiting room and looked at me quizzically – ‘who ah you?’ ‘I’m Mr Evans’, I said (it’s easier being somebody I’m not with this doctor). ‘Ah – come in’. There seemed to be a glimmer of recognition. Anyway, once in his room, I was just about to question his timekeeping when he spotted the cigarettes coming out of my pocket as I looked for the Carte Vitale (Health card) and he started lecturing me on smoking. It took me back to the last time I was in his surgery – 18 months ago when I blogged about it thus …….

Ever since I challenged J to get back into her wedding dress there’s been a marked change in the household. She now walks to the village (4 miles) when she used to take the car to the post box (50 yards). We now are fed Weetabix, without sugar or milk, for breakfast and we have muesli for dinner. I will not divulge what the Wii said when she stepped on it for a weight test but it was along the lines of, ‘one at a time please’. She nags me for having two saccharin in my mug of tea and the kids go to school looking like undernourished refugees. All the exercise she is doing is making me look like a retired, lazy executive, which I vainly profess to being.

So it was with some degree of shardenfreude on my part that she returned from a walk the other day with a poorly ankle. Having set out to walk 100 yards to the nearest bar, her friend proceeded to take her up a near vertical climb to a place called Gourdon (see picture – you might have to zoom in to see it). Despite the fact that she was wearing flip-flops, she made it to the top but on the way back down, she fell over a wild herb which had grown across the path and she sprained her ankle. Luckily a French doctor was travelling in the opposite direction on another climb but by waving her bra in the air she managed to attract his attention. I wouldn’t say that J has a big bust but EasyJet pilots and astronauts on the space station also saw this distress signal so quite a rescue operation ensued. To his credit, the French doctor carried her down the mountain and then presented her with a bill (which is what they all do) and as usual insisted she take all her clothes off to examine her ankle.

After an afternoon resting with a bottle of champagne beside the bed (yes – those of you who know her will recognise the post operative care she demands) she decided to call the local doctor to get a brace. I was told (not asked) to go to the doctors the next morning at 9am sharp to pick up a prescription for the said brace and to be on the safe side I got there at 8.50am. There was a rather tasty woman in the waiting room so the usual wait to be called was not too onerous. I kept thinking about how lucky the doctor was if she had ……no – let’s not go there.

Anyway, at 9.25am I was called in. Doctor Fang is Vietnamese and speaks a little English so he was a bit surprised when he called Mrs Evans’ name (she’s not decided how long she’ll stay with me so hasn’t changed her name yet) and I stood up. ‘Ah you Mr Evans’, he said. ‘Nope – I’m Mr Cupples’, I replied. He called out ‘Mrs Evans’ again and I explained that I was her carer and had come for the prescription.

He ushered me into his little room (just big enough to swing a cat and no more) and immediately laid into me. I won’t bother with the quotes but here goes… You Engrish – you come ovah here an sink you can juss order us docors alound. You sink you can juss phone up an order plescliptions like you do in Engrand and we just han them over. All you want is this bit of paper (pointing to his prescription pad) so you can get leimbursed. I don know what sort of injuly Mrs Evans has – I could give her wong fing and then you sue me. This is not light – not collect plocedure. I could see his English was struggling at this point so I started on him.

Risten, I’m only the carer so don’t have a go at me. If you are not comfortable don’t do it. I’ll drag the poor rady in here so you can see for yourself. And another thing – I’m not Engrish so don’t go there. If you don’t want to lite a plescliption don’t do it. And another fling – if you so much as ask her to take her crothes off I’ll come down here with my rawyer – ok ?

He replied – ‘you taking the piss’. I smiled and reft….sorry….left.

Later that morning J had to go back to his surgery where she had to take all her clothes off to have her ankle examined. He gave her a prescription for a brace. C’est la vie.