About Claris

Claris, our "house mother" of sorts has been a saving grace throughout this trip. She washes our clothes  (I have been SO thankful for that time saver while here!), cleans our house, ties our mosquito nets up in the morning and puts them back down before we go to bed at night. She guards our stuff while we're away for the day, and when us girls shower she even blow dries and straightens our hair. When our shower was broken and water leaked out the door and across the floor she would even sit outside the door with a towel soaking it up and wringing it out even though we insisted we would do it ourselves. At first we were a little uncomfortable with her doing so much for us, but we came to terms with the fact that this is her job (okay the hair thing isn't her job, but she tells us over and over again how much she just loves to do it so we let her and let's face it- blow drying hair is a pain in the ass).

So Claris does all these things and I feel like we've completely taken her for granted. The people that work for us at the big house seem to be very well off. Helen has a beautiful home down the road that I've visited and Judy has many of the pleasantries we enjoy at home, including a laptop. Claris wears the same two or three outfits repeatedly and is always insanely grateful when we bring her a soda or something from town. She's also very taken by the iPad I brought and asked permission to use it when I'm away to practice her typing so that she might have the opportunity for a better job when we leave and her contract at the house ends. She sits for hours and copies newspaper stories onto the notepad app, but I wish I had a learning to type app instead.

Claris has three children, the youngest of which is 6. Her husband left her five years ago without a word of where or why he was going. It's heartbreaking, but this seems to be quite common here. Raymond, the six year old boy, has never seen mzungu so Claris shyly asked us to visit her children when we had time and we eagerly agreed. So Saturday when we were in town, Chelsea, Sarah, and I got a few toy cars and a soccer ball to bring with us on Sunday's day trip.

The children live in Rongo, about 30 kilometers from Migori so, as is usual for Claris, we took the public transportation. The three of us were used to calling taxis so this was a new experience. Public transit here is a big van that drives down the street and stops in random places. You jump in as fast as you can and try to find a seat if one is available. There are seats for 14 and at one point there were 21 people in the van-22 if you count the baby strapped to a young woman's back. Each of the vans has a strange church-related name posted with stickers across the front windshield, this one was called "God's Power."

About an hour and a half later we arrived in Rongo, hopped out the van after paying our 60 KSH (80 shillings is one US dollar-imagine less than $1 for an hour and a half ride), and started the trek to Claris' home. We were sore from being cramped in the little van so it felt good to stretch and walk, but the whole drive I'd been thinking about a previous experience in Swaziland when we visited one of the worker's homes. He had made it himself of mud and sticks and I remember breaking down as he shared with us his young daughter's grave. A lump formed in my throat as I imagined what conditions Claris might be living under. We walked and walked and the kids so far from town chased us yelling, "Mzungu! Mzungu, how are you?!" and we drank in how quiet and beautiful and completely untouched, just as God created it, the land was outside of town. And finally Claris directed us down the path to her home. I don't really know how to explain where she lives, but I'll try my best.

When you walk through the door there's a hallway to the left. I suppose I shouldn't say hallway, it's more the size of a closet. And that's the kitchen. There are a few buckets, bowls, a little cooking oil, and a "stove" which is a make-shift pit with coals for cooking. Then you walk through another door into the house. I suppose I shouldn't say house because it's one room-but it's their home. There's a sheet dividing the room in two. In the first section there is a futon and on the other side is enough room to fit one full-size mattress (yes, for all four of them) and their clothing. I think they each have their school uniforms and one other change of clothing.

The children are beautiful, but very very shy. There is Phoebe, 13, Chelsea, 10, and Raymond, 6. We showed them the toys we brought and tried to play with the soccer ball while Claris went and handled some business in the little "complex" (for lack of a better word). They were so shy they didn't even want to touch us like most kids do or have us take their picture and I was overcome with a deep sadness.

I'm not sure what it was from. Maybe it was because Claris asked Chelsea what they'd had to eat and she answered, "Nothing," without faltering, in perfect English. Maybe it was because three children, the ages of my niece and nephew, live alone without supervision, take care of each other, and still never miss a day of school. Maybe it was because when Sarah handed Chelsea a bottle of orange soda (which the kids we see every day in Migori would violently and shamelessly slurp down in one gulp) she quietly and appreciatively said, "Thank you," and placed the bottle in their kitchen to be rationed throughout the week. Maybe I was so sad because I had been so silly to think I should bring toys and trinkets instead of food and clean water.

Of course all those are things that make me feel a sadness that starts in the pit of my stomach and rises through my throat all the way to the back of my eyes, but I think my absolute sadness comes from the fact that there's nothing I can do about it. Sure, those of us that are fortunate can sponsor Claris' children and those who live just like them in the neighboring houses, but what will that teach them? That the answer to happiness and health is being white? That great things come when they are given to you from others? These are hard-working, smart, and kind people and they can't seem to get themselves out of poor conditions.

And in the van on the way home- this one called, "Alter Boy"- I couldn't help but wonder what example we are leaving by working at St. Joseph's. I came here first and foremost to learn, which I have- beyond what I expected, but I also came here believing that I might somehow make a difference. But who do the people of the town see us hanging out with? Doctors from the hospital who live in nice houses, our employees who receive generous salaries compared to "normal" jobs, and the local people that we meet on the weekends at different dance clubs (you have to be somewhat wealthy here to afford to drink on the weekends). I feel like we're accentuating the poverty gap, when that's the last thing we should be doing.

So here I am, emotionally exhausted and utterly confused. I believe that when our hearts are broken by the condition of another human being, we should feel a desire to act on that heartbreak and follow through. I think that hands led by compassion rather than obligation will do the greatest healing. And so above all, I believe that the most good comes not from providing for all physical needs, but rather for all human and spiritual needs. We spend so much time preaching to Americans that the people of Africa are human too and we are all equal and we need to help them and send them our money and give give give, but I'm learning that it is just as important to teach Africans that we are absolutely no better than they are and that being white or American or European is not what they are yearning for, but independence and empowerment and that those are things that they can have one day.

Today I went into the hospital with a new attitude. I'm so far from qualified to be a doctor to these people, but right now I can be a hand to hold, a cautious smile, and a silent prayer in times of pain and joy- and somehow that eases the absolute sadness that I've felt through my inadequacies.