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stood around her as she talked to us under the shade of a tree. They were not in school that day; she may have kept them home to meet us or may not have been able to send them for some other reason. I wasn’ t sure, and such questions felt like judgement. So, I didn’ t ask.
Our next stop was a dairy co-op. This was the first breath of hope we saw on our trip. The co-op leaders explained that farmers were bringing in milk and banding together to sell their milk as a group, getting a higher price than they could any other way. They had purchased a pasteurizing machine, which was expected to arrive soon, and would dramatically improve their efforts.
At dinner that night, we were exhausted, drained and quiet. The day had been hard and sad, and had left us feeling a sense of emptiness as we contemplated what the lives of these two women were like on a daily basis. We looked at our own food gratefully, knowing we were fortunate to have it.
Though the day was heavy, it was a good way for us to understand what life was like for farmers without Send a Cow. We’ d spend the next three days seeing what productive farms looked like.
When Send a Cow starts its program at Kakrao this fall, both Philister and Caren will receive agricultural training and help. Knowing that was the first glimmer of hope I had on the trip and it set the tone for the rest of the week.
LIFE IN KENYA
I get motion sick very easily. I worried what the travel would be like in Kenya, but somehow found myself in the third row of a Land Rover-style vehicle we called“ the beast.” Funny thing: when you are staring at the outside world in a moving vehicle, you don’ t get car sick. And that’ s all I could do in the beast.
Titus Sagala, country director for Send a Cow, sat next to me in the third row, and I had a million questions for him. What’ s that vehicle? Why are there so many people on that motorbike? What happens if you get into an accident? Do you get speeding tickets here? How do you say thanks in Swahili?
Titus put up with our questions with the patience of a saint. There was so much to see, absorb and learn simply staring out the windows.
For the record, Titus’ answers to the questions were:
•“ That’ s a tuk tuk.”( It was a three-wheeled vehicle used as a type of taxi, giving hired rides.)
•“ People pay to ride on the back of other people’ s motorbikes. I’ ve seen people put their cows on motorbikes.”( What? I never saw that but I wanted to. Desperately.)
•“ If you get into an accident, mostly, you go on with your life if everything is OK.” In fact, we did, and we just went on.
•“ Speeding tickets are a big deal and can cost a lot of time and money if you have to go to court.”
•“ Asante sana.”
We saw lots and lots and lots of people on foot throughout Western Kenya on main roads. They walked with shoes, without, some dressed up in smart suits or children in school uniforms. We saw people in western-style clothes and people in more traditional dress, especially women, which included a head wrap. Some were barefoot; most were not.
Just as you might imagine, women carried things on their heads, backs stick-straight as they balanced wide, shallow bowls filled with bananas on top of their heads. More commonly, we spotted tall, white bags on their heads. They carried water in big, yellow jugs – but not on their heads.
My western viewpoint told me this was a hard life. To them, it is just life. You walk where you need to go, you learn to balance things on your head at a young age, you grow your own food, you hang up laundry to dry outside. You live in a mud hut because it is what you have. If you are fortunate, you receive a full education, but nothing is offered for free beyond primary school.
And that presents the common thread I found throughout this trip, the thing that unites us all and changes my perspective: We all want the same things. Me, sitting in my home in New Albany, happy and air-conditioned: I want a good education for my children, and for them to receive as much education as possible.
Philister, on her farm in Kenya right now as you read this, wants that, too. She wants her children to receive as much education as possible.
We all want the same things. For some, though, it is much more a struggle to get it.
MORE FARMS, AND HOPE
The farmers we visited in Kenya in the next three days of our trip all want that, too. Every time we asked about their hopes and dreams for the future, it was never for themselves. It was for the next generation. Children are inescapable in Kenya; they surround you at every farm. If you live in Kenya, you’ re raising your own children, and likely someone else’ s, too, maybe a sister or brother who has passed on or who has“ gone away,” as we were told more than once as part of a family story. Where did they go? They shrug. No one knows.
These farmers met us joyfully. They wanted to show us their beautiful land, the many crops they grew, their prized livestock. At one farm, the three goats bore the names of the two Send a Cow peer farmers who had helped her, and the third was named Nelson Mandela. Banana trees were lush, green and large.
A male farmer, whose wife had worked with Send a Cow for years before her death, proudly showed off the kitchen he used, which simply had two designated spots to build fires for cooking, and proudly showed off the drying rack for dishes that he had built. Until someone from Send a Cow showed them, they simply do not know it isn’ t sanitary to put washed dishes on the ground.
They just do not know, and as simple as that change is, sanitation can save lives.
At this farm, we were invited to plant a tree there, and they would name it for us. It was a tiny sapling. The farmer dug a small hole, and we placed the tree in it. I covered it in dirt, watered it a bit and everyone clapped.
It seems ridiculously silly, doesn’ t it? At this point in the trip, I was craving the ability to provide some type of tangible help, and this was more than welcome.
There is a tiny sapling in Africa named Robyn. It makes me stupid happy to think about it.
After we planted our trees, we toured another farm. This farmer had a drip irrigation system, which Send a Cow helped her create. They bought the hoses with holes punctured in them and would fill a large cistern with water they carried from a stream or watershed. Gravity would carry the water through the hose and gently water the crops.
This farmer stood in the midst of her bright green field, brimming with crops, in a beautiful orange dress and sang us a song about how much
18 EXTOL • OCTOBER / NOVEMBER 2017