Map of Kasarani

We are traveling to the Children's Center, at Kasarani, to play with the children today. The orphanage is just over 20 minutes away, but I cannot wait to see the children and to see how they have grown since last year. We pass through Mathare Valley, one of the slums of Nairobi, Kenya's capital, to reach Kasarani, our destination.

The bars in front of the gate are unlocked and have been pulled back for us. The scent of dampness hits us as we push open the heavy wooden door-- the familiar smell of the place that is home to so many special people. We notice the walls. A film of dirt and handprints that appears to have built up over many years dulls the blue and green coat of paint we applied just eleven months ago. 

We walk across the concrete floor of the open courtyard, toward the right, to the windowless corner office. We are greeted with warm hugs.  We throw our backpacks onto the chairs in the dark office then step back into the courtyard to meet some of the other workers. I should have looked over my Swahili phrase book---the only thing I remember is "Jambo," which means "Hello"---but most everyone speaks English very well since Kenya is a former British colony. 

The children that are too young or too sick to play outside with the others are on the floor above us. We hear giggles and look up to see them peeking down through the wire mesh that has been put up to reinforce the railing. We must run up for hugs.  We tour the familiar rooms on the second floor. They are all neat and clean.  We see the rooms where the children sleep.  A room for the boys and a room for the girls, each with neat rows of beds, each bed with its own mosquito net.Two rooms  are set up to be classrooms.  There is one locked door which is where the medical supplies are kept.  Once the door is open and we walk in, I smell alcohol and suddenly remember my own elementary school nurse's office.  One room now has gym mats and a sturdy table along with two broken wheelchairs and a walker and is designated as the therapy room.  One of the children is in there now, his muscles being stroked and exercised by a therapist. Once a week a doctor will come in to tend to the disabled children to set their course of treatment.   This service is funded by the government.  The orphanage is very lucky to have this therapy and everyone hopes it will continue. Not much has changed since last year. Maybe next year we can paint again.

We finally go back downstairs and head toward the playground. When we walk through the breezeway we see N in his wheelchair with his assortment of arts and crafts. He always smiles. N makes woven purses and baskets, earrings and necklaces, bookmarks and other handmade items. He is an artist with a very special gift that he shares by teaching other children how to create beautiful arts and crafts, which are then sold to make money for the Children's Center. We are lucky---N has many new things this time---and we plan to buy him out again this year.

Directly outside of the breezeway is our favorite place, the playground.

It is winter in Kenya, but it is a warm clear sunny day with a blue sky and white puffy clouds. The temperature feels very mild to me, about 69-70 degrees Fahrenheit. I am comfortable in a long sleeve t-shirt, but most of the people that live here are bundled up in sweaters and coats. The weather is cold to them.  Some even have on toboggans. 

To my left there are two workers washing a mountain of clothes and hanging them on a clothesline to dry. Two stone walls and a wooden fence surround the playground and afford privacy to the orphanage. The ground is hard-packed, pale orange dirt with splatters of grass around the edges at the fence. An out of control soccer ball disturbs a peaceful lineup of children and an argument begins over who is next in line for the slide. The swingset against the left wall is working its magic, with the children pumping their legs as hard as they can, trying to swing up to the sky. Situated in the right back corner of the playground, a small wooden shed is a makeshift kitchen that also serves as storage for the piles of carrots, potatoes and other items that will soon be transformed by the cooks into a hot, tasty stew. 

The playground is vibrant. The children's clothes are colorful, bright, and mismatched, and on closer observation, well-worn. Six or seven of the children are off to the side in wheelchairs, some watching and laughing, and others silently rocking. When I close my eyes, the laughter and squeals that I hear could be from any playground in the world. 

Suddenly, the first few moments of quiet introspection come to a screeching halt. The children have seen us. Yay--the fun begins! Here they come.