From the village of Benson’s mom we headed to the sites of a number of refugee camps. These sites, monitored and assisted by many NGOs and the United Nations High Commission on Refugees, were homes to Sudanese, Somali, Ethiopian and Congolese refugees. They have been here for many years and I am told the inhabitants numbered around 95,000 people. The site was slum like, not the rows of white tents I had imagined. Ben took me past a very wide dry river, where Turkana women were digging in the sand to find water. In some places, young boys were skinny-dipping in the 2 x 2 hole they had dug. Some animals were drinking from the holes and you could also see men using some of the holes as a latrine. We climbed to the top of a high hill that overlooked the refugee camps. Even some of the various nations were subdivided because of tribal differences. We walked through the narrow streets but I got really dehydrated and we headed back to town, quite a distance.
We met various acquaintances of Ben, one a young boy who called Ben days earlier. He had been sent home from school because he did not have shoes. He had called to see if Ben could give him his black school shoes. His name, which I forget, means “wind.” We gave him 1000 shillings, $12.00 and he was off to buy shoes for school – so happy. He also used the cold shower outside the guesthouse, a luxury.
The night was uneventful but hot. We slept under a net, a little hungry since food was scarce in the town. The management was also having difficulties in the place where we were staying and money to buy food for the restaurant was not flowing. We ate some spaghetti noodles for lunch/dinner. The place did have an outdoor latrine and shower. Noise echoed throughout the night, coming from the bar adjacent to our room. The generator broke around 10pm gratefully and things quieted down. We did manage a walk around the outskirts of the town. Lighted only by the moon, the land was quiet and dark but for some campfires. My white body must have been somewhat visible in the night because I would hear the call to me “mazungu”!
The next morning we headed back to the village. This time, Ben’s brother was there. His name is Lomori (Lomo for short). Ben did not greet him or acknowledge his brother or anyone else but headed to the little hut where we sat waiting to be welcomed. Eventually his brother came in and talked non-stop for quite some time. Ben just listened. I know it was a story of how difficult life had been in the village and wishing Ben had not gone away. Later, Ben;s mom came in and there was a discussion on what to give me upon my departure. Lomo lamented their situation, embarrassed that they had no food to give me or goat to slaughter, as was their tradition. When we had visited for quite some time, we decided to leave and walk to a far mountain for a view of the camps and the town. We took some video and family pictures, said farewell to mom and headed off. Lomo and Ben’s sister accompanied us on the walk. His sister left us to fetch water at the river and we continued on but decided I looked unable to make the trip up the mountain and we headed for the town. My old boot sole came apart and we looked for someone to mend it. It made a sound like a flat tire as I walked through town, calling even more attention to myself. We found a group of men seated, all watching the shoemaker work. They made me sit down, removed my shoes, gave me flip-flops to wear and began mending my shoe. I was the center of attention and a small crowd gathered. Men tried to hook me up with local women, one tried to argue the employment situation with me, another asked me to speak to him in French as he warned me this was a dangerous group to be around. He insisted that we finish our business and get back to the guesthouse. We did, once the boot was not only glued but stitched.
We met various acquaintances of Ben, one a young boy who called Ben days earlier. He had been sent home from school because he did not have shoes. He had called to see if Ben could give him his black school shoes. His name, which I forget, means “wind.” We gave him 1000 shillings, $12.00 and he was off to buy shoes for school – so happy. He also used the cold shower outside the guesthouse, a luxury.
The night was uneventful but hot. We slept under a net, a little hungry since food was scarce in the town. The management was also having difficulties in the place where we were staying and money to buy food for the restaurant was not flowing. We ate some spaghetti noodles for lunch/dinner. The place did have an outdoor latrine and shower. Noise echoed throughout the night, coming from the bar adjacent to our room. The generator broke around 10pm gratefully and things quieted down. We did manage a walk around the outskirts of the town. Lighted only by the moon, the land was quiet and dark but for some campfires. My white body must have been somewhat visible in the night because I would hear the call to me “mazungu”!
The next morning we headed back to the village. This time, Ben’s brother was there. His name is Lomori (Lomo for short). Ben did not greet him or acknowledge his brother or anyone else but headed to the little hut where we sat waiting to be welcomed. Eventually his brother came in and talked non-stop for quite some time. Ben just listened. I know it was a story of how difficult life had been in the village and wishing Ben had not gone away. Later, Ben;s mom came in and there was a discussion on what to give me upon my departure. Lomo lamented their situation, embarrassed that they had no food to give me or goat to slaughter, as was their tradition. When we had visited for quite some time, we decided to leave and walk to a far mountain for a view of the camps and the town. We took some video and family pictures, said farewell to mom and headed off. Lomo and Ben’s sister accompanied us on the walk. His sister left us to fetch water at the river and we continued on but decided I looked unable to make the trip up the mountain and we headed for the town. My old boot sole came apart and we looked for someone to mend it. It made a sound like a flat tire as I walked through town, calling even more attention to myself. We found a group of men seated, all watching the shoemaker work. They made me sit down, removed my shoes, gave me flip-flops to wear and began mending my shoe. I was the center of attention and a small crowd gathered. Men tried to hook me up with local women, one tried to argue the employment situation with me, another asked me to speak to him in French as he warned me this was a dangerous group to be around. He insisted that we finish our business and get back to the guesthouse. We did, once the boot was not only glued but stitched.
(Click to enlarge. This is a picture of Ben's brother. Scarring and branding is common among the Turkana. It is a sign of beauty. These hundreds of scars were made with a fish hook pulling the skin up and then slicing with a razor blade. Ben has scars a well - dots in symmetrical shaped made from burning holes in the skin with reeds or hard grass.)We met up with Ben’s brother again at the guesthouse where he had a gift for me. The Turkana men carry a stool around with them. It is small with a handle attached to carry. He had made it from one solid piece of log and was happy if I would accept it as a gift from the family. We ate a simple lunch (still a food shortage) of spaghetti noodles and Coke. Later that night we walked around the town, visited some friends before settling in for the night.
