We all knew this one was special. Dave has christened it 'The Flying Kiwi' (after a short lived NZ based TV show). It was handmade, 4 feet long with big white solid plastic back wheels, a wooden body and two small front wheels with a steering rope. I'm not sure where the wheels came from, but you knew, just by spinning them; they were fast.
The night before my eldest brother Matt had shown me how to burn a hole in a middle of a piece of wood with a hot poker. This was of course for the steering pin; crude but effective. First test drive would be tomorrow morning, on Mannions hill. The Kiwi's first outing.
After a few minor modifications we started the walk up the hill. Half way up, at the turn, I was stationed to watch out for oncoming cars. I could whisle loud so that was to be the warning signal. As my brothers continued the ascent I listened with proud admiration to their excited banter.
Naturally seniority dictated that the rattling object emerging from the upper hill would be piloted by my eldest brother, Matt. But as the cart got nearer it was Dave I saw. As my racing mind struggled to assess the situation, I wondered, 'Monkey (Matt) would be crazy enough to survive this, but is Dave?'. As the cart approached the brow of the lower hill, my bowels loosened as my ears registered the sound of a car approaching from the opposite direction.
I started running like the bejaysus. Never occured to me to whistle to try and stop Dave. I waved and hollered like a banshee at the approaching car. It slowed and stopped as Dave's momentum carried him out of control towards the parked car. He layed on the brakes (a wooden stick on one wheel) and ran right into the front of the car popping his head lightly off the bumper.
Not a scratch on him, thank God. After Seamus Dick (the owner of the car) shouted at us for a minute or two we walked sheepily in home with Matt. Dave smiled and says "She's fast!". We nearly broke our holes laughin'.
I had a very happy childhood. This Friday the VSO Coast volunteers are hosting a workshop on "protection of children against commercial sexual exploitation through the promotion of responsible tourism". There are so many children here that are robbed of their childhood. I believe every Child has the right to a Childhood...and the innocence devilment of a fast cart.
M.
p.s. I'm sure my brothers will correct me on the details but that's how I remember anyways.
UNICEF Report Extract (Kenya Coast)
- All data sources indicated that more than 45% of girls involved in prostitution and child sex tourism began transactional sex for cash or for goods and favours between the ages of 12 and 13 years.
- More than 10% of girls begin transactional sex below 12 years of age.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
An evening Stroll
Grace is the best cook this side of the Sahara. About twice a week her son Daniel arrives over with sweet cake or homemade passion juice or fresh veg. I work with her husband James. He’d talk the hind leg off a donkey, but I join his company every chance I get. He is a wise mzee (old man). I always feel comfortable and welcome in their home…and always leave well feed.
In the evening I usually take a walk out to the Bombolulu stage (main road where the matatus run from). Of a evening, I may bump into Johnny from leather workshop, a rampant Arsenal fan and the main man on the Bombolulu sports committee, of which I am the latest member, every since I made a small donation (thanks Matt/Jen/Dec). They bought a volleyball and net with the donation and the workshop has gone volleyball crazy.
After saluting the askaris (guards), I exit the gate and salute my fruit and veg lady (Harbari ya jioni – how’s your evening; Nzuri – grand). In short gestures I assure her I’ll be calling to her on my way back. The road is newly paved now so even with the rains tis not muddy; a real gift for all the wheelchairs that use it. Half way out I greet Piru (Peeroo), who works in raw material stores (One bad leg, two strong arms). “Where to?” he asks. “Safari Kidogo” says I (Short trip). After a brief commentary on the weather I am on my way again.
My viasa Lady is not there this evening. I salute Makoha’s (office runner) wife at her stall and stop to buy a few oranges. I ordered (and paid for) a pineapple off her two weeks ago but crossed wires meant it spoiled before I collected it. We don’t speak of it. Makoha is in bed sick with Malaria. “Pole. I hope he feels better soon”.
Another hundred metres and I’m at my destination. Johnny’s store. I hand in my glass bottle and grab another liter of sprite, 20 sportmans and some phone credit. Johnny is pure business and hands me my change through the security grill.
On the way back I stop at my veg lady. She give me a free onion and a few free chilli’s with my potatos, bananas, tomatoes and mangoes.
Back inside the workshops James is playing guitar outside his house. I sit while he finishes the song and in gentle admiration say “Tamu” (sweet). We talk about life, religion, work and politics until hunger moves me.
Tomorrow is stocktake. I need an early night. Simple as that.
M.
p.s. This blog's for my Mum. Sorry it took so long Ma.
In the evening I usually take a walk out to the Bombolulu stage (main road where the matatus run from). Of a evening, I may bump into Johnny from leather workshop, a rampant Arsenal fan and the main man on the Bombolulu sports committee, of which I am the latest member, every since I made a small donation (thanks Matt/Jen/Dec). They bought a volleyball and net with the donation and the workshop has gone volleyball crazy.
After saluting the askaris (guards), I exit the gate and salute my fruit and veg lady (Harbari ya jioni – how’s your evening; Nzuri – grand). In short gestures I assure her I’ll be calling to her on my way back. The road is newly paved now so even with the rains tis not muddy; a real gift for all the wheelchairs that use it. Half way out I greet Piru (Peeroo), who works in raw material stores (One bad leg, two strong arms). “Where to?” he asks. “Safari Kidogo” says I (Short trip). After a brief commentary on the weather I am on my way again.
My viasa Lady is not there this evening. I salute Makoha’s (office runner) wife at her stall and stop to buy a few oranges. I ordered (and paid for) a pineapple off her two weeks ago but crossed wires meant it spoiled before I collected it. We don’t speak of it. Makoha is in bed sick with Malaria. “Pole. I hope he feels better soon”.
Another hundred metres and I’m at my destination. Johnny’s store. I hand in my glass bottle and grab another liter of sprite, 20 sportmans and some phone credit. Johnny is pure business and hands me my change through the security grill.
On the way back I stop at my veg lady. She give me a free onion and a few free chilli’s with my potatos, bananas, tomatoes and mangoes.
Back inside the workshops James is playing guitar outside his house. I sit while he finishes the song and in gentle admiration say “Tamu” (sweet). We talk about life, religion, work and politics until hunger moves me.
Tomorrow is stocktake. I need an early night. Simple as that.
M.
p.s. This blog's for my Mum. Sorry it took so long Ma.
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