What I Have Lived For (adapted)
(The Prologue to Bertrand Russell's Autobiography)
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Three passions have governed my life: The longings for love, the search for knowledge, And unbearable pity for the suffering of [humankind].
Love brings ecstasy and relieves loneliness. In the union of love I have seen In a mystic miniature the prefiguring vision Of the heavens that saints and poets have imagined.
With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of [people]. I have wished to know why the stars shine.
Love and knowledge led upwards to the heavens, But always pity brought me back to earth; Cries of pain reverberated in my heart Of children in famine, of victims tortured And of old people left helpless. I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot, And I too suffer.
This has been my life; I found it worth living.
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Somedays, I do like a bit of the ould poetry.
M.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
The Flying Kiwi
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Larium Effect
Falling into a fitful sleep after work, I shift uneasily on the couch. My unconscious mind is angry. In my dream, I am picking a fight with an aged woman who has stolen my nafsi. She is old and frail. She is a pain in the ass. I scream at her. Disturbed doesn’t begin to describe how I feel when I wake up.
Africa is the cradle of humanity. Scratch your arm and you may see the darker layer. We all came from here or hereabouts. We were bound to end up back here sometime.
The following day I work hard. That aged Lady is my kin. She’s still a pain in the ass though.
M.
P.S. Don’t worry; I just thought I'd try something different; and; don’t be afraid to scratch;
Note: ‘nafsi’ is the Swahili word for breath/self
Africa is the cradle of humanity. Scratch your arm and you may see the darker layer. We all came from here or hereabouts. We were bound to end up back here sometime.
The following day I work hard. That aged Lady is my kin. She’s still a pain in the ass though.
M.
P.S. Don’t worry; I just thought I'd try something different; and; don’t be afraid to scratch;
Note: ‘nafsi’ is the Swahili word for breath/self
Friday, July 31, 2009
Ta me ag dul abhaile
I was strangely apprenhensive in the weeks before going home. Couldn't quiet put my finger on why. Suppose you always wonder if things will be different; people have moved on, changed. Or indeed, more vainly, whether you have. Thankfully, after my first pint of Guinness, on the first night back, I felt right at home. It was like mother's milk, and I slept like a baby.
The weeks after that were a whirlwind of people and places...
Birdhill
- Welcome home Party for me and Brother Paul
- Family time
- Climbing Carauntoohill with Bro Paul and Nephew Matt (6 hours! My legs were jelly for 2 days)
- Family time and visit from college crew
Dublin
- Amdahl Lads BBQ (We were far too happy to see each other)
Loughrea
- Pete gaff and time with Godson and his bros (Pete's young lads are gas)
Athenry
- Cooked dinner for, and catch up with, Morag and Edel. There were no fatalities.
Galway
- Pints, labouring (have the bruises to prove it too) and and wedding prep (I wouldn't have been anywhere else.)
Spanish Point
- Wedding prep, wedding, post wedding (Mighty, absolutely Mighty!)
- Pictures...coming soon...here is one for now.
Dublin
- AC/DC concert with Amdahl Lads (Thunder! Na-na-na-na na-na-na-na!)
Galway
- Final vistits with Sandra, Teds and Maj
Birdhill
- time out with family and Callum's birthday, with biggest bouncy castle I have ever seen...They were so happy to be getting rid of me they were dancing in the kitchen! Loads of hugging and out the door.
Dublin
- Quiet time in IoP before departure + Leaving dinner
London
- Impromtu BBQ in Ado's and Julie's (Richie has a nice rack...Of ribs, behave!)
Nairobi
- VSO office visits, welcome new volunteers (i.e. free food), Squash games, homesickness, and Diana's Birthday Party (Big thanks to Peter an Emily for putting me up)
Back in work in Mombasa on Friday (10th) and a day of greeting people and handing out 'candy' and old mobile phones. I had a grand old time catching up with friends and on recent events.
There would be time enough for work on Monday.
M.
Cultural Learning
-----------------
If you're gonna try to explain 'the bog' and 'turf' to a Kenyan, bring pictures.
Note: I'm going try to get back to blogging more regularly.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Africa
Once upon a time an innocent (relatively), young (even more relative) Irish country lad came to Kenyan. After an initial period of being pointed at and called 'Muzungu'-White man, he came to be commonly known as Mr Mike. Mr Mike busied himself with all manner of IT related projects and enjoyed many highs, with only the odd "What the hell am I doing here!" moments.
Things happened in Africa that could never have been predicted. Who could have foreseen defeat at the feet of a 14 old girls soccer team; Or our intrepid volunteer being consulted on the design of a chain cutting machine, or helping out by drawing yellow arrows on the ground.
For you see, Africa is not predictable. Any given Tuesday you may be met by a picket line at work or armed policemen at the gate. A simple act of kindness from your neighbor can bring the realization that you are a valued part of the community. Implementing new payroll processes can mean that you, unintentionally, cause a family to go hungry. Saying that some historians surmise that Buddha and Jesus could have been one and the same, can lead to a sustained campaign by a colleague to save your soul from dark forces. We eventually agreed that everybody’s God is different, but in truth He is just the same.
He missed his Ma of course, and all his friends and family. He missed having a washing machine and the taste of a frothy pint of Guinness. He was poor by Western standards but well to do by third world ones. The lack of the merciless commercial onslaught he got at home meant that he, with time, forgot about all the new fangled accoutrements that would make his life easier and more modern. He never walked with his hands in his pockets, as it was just too damned hot. He sometimes walked hand in hand with male colleagues around Bombolulu cause that's just the way it is here. (But in truth it will always be a cultural adjustment beyond his comfort zone).
Side by side he worked with his African counterparts. Proud to call them friends. The Trocaire box pictures of his youth seem misplaced in memory. Come and see for yoursells. Mr. Mike ain't no preacher. That Muzungu doesn't have the answers.
He only has a vague idea as to what he'd do next year; but that's alright. When the time comes the decision will get made, and he’ll make the most of that decision till the next decision needs to be made.
I guess I’ll live happily ever after. That’s the plan anyways.
M.
Things happened in Africa that could never have been predicted. Who could have foreseen defeat at the feet of a 14 old girls soccer team; Or our intrepid volunteer being consulted on the design of a chain cutting machine, or helping out by drawing yellow arrows on the ground.
For you see, Africa is not predictable. Any given Tuesday you may be met by a picket line at work or armed policemen at the gate. A simple act of kindness from your neighbor can bring the realization that you are a valued part of the community. Implementing new payroll processes can mean that you, unintentionally, cause a family to go hungry. Saying that some historians surmise that Buddha and Jesus could have been one and the same, can lead to a sustained campaign by a colleague to save your soul from dark forces. We eventually agreed that everybody’s God is different, but in truth He is just the same.
He missed his Ma of course, and all his friends and family. He missed having a washing machine and the taste of a frothy pint of Guinness. He was poor by Western standards but well to do by third world ones. The lack of the merciless commercial onslaught he got at home meant that he, with time, forgot about all the new fangled accoutrements that would make his life easier and more modern. He never walked with his hands in his pockets, as it was just too damned hot. He sometimes walked hand in hand with male colleagues around Bombolulu cause that's just the way it is here. (But in truth it will always be a cultural adjustment beyond his comfort zone).
Side by side he worked with his African counterparts. Proud to call them friends. The Trocaire box pictures of his youth seem misplaced in memory. Come and see for yoursells. Mr. Mike ain't no preacher. That Muzungu doesn't have the answers.
He only has a vague idea as to what he'd do next year; but that's alright. When the time comes the decision will get made, and he’ll make the most of that decision till the next decision needs to be made.
I guess I’ll live happily ever after. That’s the plan anyways.
M.
Monday, May 11, 2009
A Family Wake
In 1982, the Galway Plate was won by 'The Lady's Master'. I was at home, outside, trying to calm me cousin Mark down after he fell. Even though we were both still in short pants we realised the importance of the event from family reactions. My Uncle Matt, the trainer, was the toast of Galway. Sadly, he'll toast no more. His last bottle of Brandy was, well, his last. The family buried him today.
This is the man who helped me get my first job...my grant in college...my first car insurance...a stranger to me now. He hasn't talked to me for years. The liquor did his talking for him these last few years.
What a waste. What a complete bloody waste. He is at peace now. At least that's something.
I wish I was at home. I'd stand my Da a drink...and he'll stand me one back...and he'll say...'tis a grand day out'..and you'd say...'I love you too, Da. Sorry for your loss.'. Then, I'd need another drink.
M.
This is the man who helped me get my first job...my grant in college...my first car insurance...a stranger to me now. He hasn't talked to me for years. The liquor did his talking for him these last few years.
What a waste. What a complete bloody waste. He is at peace now. At least that's something.
I wish I was at home. I'd stand my Da a drink...and he'll stand me one back...and he'll say...'tis a grand day out'..and you'd say...'I love you too, Da. Sorry for your loss.'. Then, I'd need another drink.
M.
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