I wake up my second day in Kisumu, feeling slightly like time and space have become somehow irrelevant. I’m seven hours ahead of everyone I know and love (soon to be eight due to Daylight Savings), sleeping under a mosquito net and feeling the creepy crawly tug of jetlag grabbing at my heels. And as I soon find out, Kenyans have their own sense of time and space all together. A 10-minute drive takes 45, an 8 am pickup means give or take an hour, a mile could actually be five. You get what I mean. It’s all extremely well intentioned however, and actually fits perfectly in with their “Hakuna Matata” attitude, so I quickly adjust, accepting that Kenya works on its own operating system.

Our first stop is an hour drive outside the city. We pass the equator along the way, oddly enough sponsored by the local Lions club. Everything in Kenya is branded. Coca Cola, Bic, Safaricom. I see it on security gates, cars, housing complexes in the city, tin stalls in the rural areas.  In so many ways, it seems everything is for sale.

We pull up to the Malanga Health Center and are greeted by the two nurses that manage the center, Paul Malawa and Alice Nangumba. There is a sense of pride with which they show me their modest facilities, describing in detail the purpose of each room. What interests me the most is the way they compare and contrast everything as before CARE and after CARE. And it’s not in a “Somebody’s-here-from-CARE-we-should-talk-them-up-type-of-way.” Like their sense of time (or lack thereof), Kenyans also are known for their frankness.

The results are tangible. Mosquito nets for the maternity recovery ward. Medical equipment that helps the staff determine PMTCT risks (prevention of mother to child transmission). Clean water systems to replace the rusted tank that sits in the front yard, the previous source of water. New maternal delivery beds (previously mothers had to give birth on wooden benches). Even chairs for patients and a clock for the nurses to determine the timing between contractions. CARE’s contributions seem to be everywhere.

But the thing that I hear again and again, is what CARE has given that can’t be seen. CARE has built capacity. Capacity is one of those words, that as a member of the communications team, we try not to use. Media view it as to “wonky,” the public gets confused by it. But the truth is whatever you call it, capacity building is what we do. And it’s what we do best. We’re not handing out fish; we’re teaching people how to fish. Capacity building is the entire approach behind CARE’s work:  educating and investing in the community leaders and practitioners that are on the ground really making the changes. It’s strengthening competencies so that Paul and Alice can be more effective in their work. It’s job training, education, utilizing community networks and resources. And it’s serving as a true partner to the Malanga Health Center. “There has been no particular NGO that has been around consistently in this facility,” Alice told me. “It’s only CARE.”

We walk over to the Comprehensive Care Unit. We pass a rusted bicycle, aka the old emergency obstetrics transport vehicle.  Easel paper covers the walls remind clients of the pillars of safe motherhood, the top ten diseases. We pass a chalkboard that serves as the mortality record. In June of this year, there were 2 births and 8 deaths, two of which were under five.

The Care Unit is packed with visitors. Noah, the only paid counselor on staff, says he sometimes sees up to 50 clients a day, usually on the days the Anti-Retroviral Therapy medicines arrive. Trained volunteers known as peer educators spend much of their day helping other clients. As clients themselves, they are too well aware of the health challenges that face their community. Paul tells me about how common “deserters” are. Deserters are clients that find out their status and then disappear; the stigma of having HIV is too high. Peer educators track them down, trying their best to convince them that taking their medicine is best for both their own health as well as preventing the spread of the disease to their partners. Sometimes they succeed. Sometimes they don’t. It’s a tough conversation to have. I will learn at my next stop how CARE is using some exceptionally creative ways to approach such a challenging subject.

Our next stop is just a few miles down the road. It’s a program I’ve wanted to see for some time. Kenyans are a people meant for performance. It’s not uncommon to hear singing while walking down the streets; meetings are often started with a dance and a song. So it only makes sense that when talking about some of these more complicated issues—family planning, domestic violence—Kenyans would choose to express themselves through drama. The Participatory Education Theater group uses an interactive style of theatre to engage its audiences in critical discussions. And it seems to be working.

A group of 40 or 50 people has gathered at the local Chief’s homestead, waiting for the performance to begin. Men, women and children alike are sitting in the grass, laughing with their neighbors, catching up since they’ve last met. Several of the women are members of the House of Nannies, a CARE group that supports caretakers of HIV/AIDS orphans. One such caretaker walks over with a curious boy named Obama. There are lots of Obamas here. And lots of Clintons, Rhoda of CARE Siaya tells me. Kenyans tend to name their children after important visitors. If I’m lucky and I meet a woman who gives birth in the next week or so, there may be a “Niki” running around too.

After awhile the performance begins. It’s all in Kiswahili so CARE staff lean over occasionally to translate. The first performance is on balancing religious beliefs and family planning. A mother approaches her husband with her very sick child. She wants to go to the hospital. The father refuses, saying they will pray. The child later dies and a fight ensues. During the course of the performance, the audience jumps in with suggestions, both men and women expressing their views on what the parents should do. A deeply religious people, Kenyans often have a hard time reconciling where prayer needs to be accompanied with medical interventions. Performances like these allow the community to discuss and accept that such interventions don’t have to go against their religious beliefs. 

After the performance, a CARE staffer facilitates a discussion. Some of the opinions expressed are long-held, deep-rooted. It’s amazing to be able to witness such frank dialogue between men and women. Other performances address the rights of children and birth spacing. The dialogue goes on and on. Auscar, who facilitates several of the discussions, tells me they have to cut off the dialogue at some point. They could sit and discuss these issues for hours. People are truly engaged. I may not speak Kiswahili, but the animated hand gestures, the facial expressions and the back and forth conversations are proof enough for me. This is a forum for conversation that is working.

It starts to rain and five or six of us crowd in the CARE truck for a debrief. Kenyans love the debrief. How do you feel? What did you think? What could we have done better? They are innately curious and we spend an hour or so discussing a range of topics. They are open and honest and I finally get to ask some of the questions that are still lingering from my car ride with Refa. And they ask me questions back. It’s an intimate exchange and I feel like I have learned immensely in my short time with them.

As Refa prepares to drive me to the airport, Rhoda pulls out a small gift from the Siaya office. It’s a beautiful traditional wrap that Kenyan women wear. Along with the CARE logo, it reads the slogan of the Village Savings and Loans Group, “Grow Together.”  I am deeply touched and give each of my new friends a sincere and heartfelt hug. I have experienced so much, and my trip has just begun. I can’t wait to see what else awaits me.