Mathare Valley

Mathare Valley. A place where families eat together around one table every night, sometimes on the floor or wherever their tired bodies lay. They gather around a single flickering candle while the woman of the house prepares a meal in the corner. Giggles can be heard from the girls sitting cross legged on the floor. The eight by eight room gives a sense of comfort, of protection, everyone you care about is right here. Reggae can be heard from your neighbors, and your other neighbors and their neighbors next to them, blending together in an exciting tribal rhythm. The giggling girls make animals with the shadows of their hands on the sheet behind them that separates the table from the single bed. A dog, a bunny, a monster that is creeping across the ceiling towards my head. The crisps breeze that makes its way between the cracks and crannies in the sheet metal causes everyone to huddle a bit closer together and the anticipation for the hot meal increases a bit. Then a present is presented, a rare delicacy that never sees the inside of this house. A gleaming glass bottle of Coca-Cola. Not a small one at that, it is divided sparingly each person receiving a few gulps, just enough to sweeten your mouth. Everyone smiles at the unexpected surprise. Then the meal is presented, and everyone eats with their hands, laughing about the stories of the day and sharing memories of the past. The granddad of the house lounges in the corner barely visible except for his white beard, quietly listening to the family he has created that surrounds him. And then the candle begins to flicker and it’s time for bed. The women gather their blankets and we head out single file (because that’s all the alley allows) watching your step every bit of the way. You notice a person crouching in the corner and say hello as you make your way past him, then share a few laughs later at the fact he was showering and you didn’t even notice because it was so dark and so was he. You make a stop at the public restrooms before heading to the bedroom, paying the man three shillings before you open the creeky wooden door and try desperately not to fall in the hole that has been the target of men and women all day…After doing this somewhat successfully, you carefully follow the rest of the women, skipping, jumping and scaling the alleys that lead to the bedroom. Babies are littered through the alleys, laughing and postponing their impending bedtime. You smack your head a few times on the low riding sheet metal roofs that appear out of nowhere and massage your wounds as you unlock the bedroom. One by one the women file in, about 7 or so of us. And we light a single candle, and latch the door behind us. The Gerry can is placed by the door, just in case some of us can’t wait till morning for the restroom. One by one, we lay on the ground, happy for a rest after a long day. The breeze has picked up and all 7 gladly pack like sardines together to keep each other warm. The neighbors conversation can be heard through the cardboard, and after a while, the sound of an army of rats outside the door and on top of the roof make its way into your ears, but if you listen closely they almost sound like rain, and they put you to sleep just as well. The night passes quickly and wake to the blend of Reggae blaring and exciting, another day. One by one the women wake up and file out of the bedroom, the morning air greeting you like an old friend. The prospect of a new day hangs in the air. With your clothes for the new day clutched in your hand, and your pj’s still on, you wind your way through the rest of your neighbors waking and emerging from their rooms. Skipping and jumping and ducking through the maze, you make it to the public toilets and rejoice in your triumph of making it through the night without having to had used the Gerry can, but reluctantly hand over your 3 shillings yet again. Then you stand patiently while your friends gather around the one water spout and fill their 10 liter containers with water. You exchange greetings and smiles and admire their nightwear. The kids from the night before stare at you amazed and wide eyed at the strangers who are gracing their presence.  You smile goofily and awkwardly turn your gaze to the toilet man. And yes-you might mention, these are penguins on my night pants. Once your container is full, you skip and jump and duck your way back towards your dining place. Once inside, the water is warmed over the flame and poured into a large bowl. Then the cloth is hung on a line outside, in the corner. You get the privilege of showering first, and you step outside back into the chilly air while the others chat and prepare the morning tea, waiting for their turn. Behind the conga you go, removing your shoes first and then your  clothes, peering over the conga to make sure no one is peeping. About half way through your shower, as you splash the warm water over your goose bump filled body, you hear giggles erupting from somewhere nearby. Self-consciously you check behind you, hmmm. Then you realize there is a hole. In the middle of the conga. A large hole. You peer through the hole and a brigade of tiny bodies with tiny amazed eyes stare back at you as they laugh at the very white naked person taking a shower. You dry off quickly to avoid attracting any older eyes from joining the peep show as well. Breakfast awaits you, bread and chai. You make small chat as you sip on your hot tea that works its way through your body, erasing the damage the night of cold did to your bones. As your body warms, everyone seems to liven and the laughter starts again. Then it’s time to take a look around. And your lead to a roof top that over looks Mathare Valley. And colors upon colors penetrate your eyes and people upon people stare up at you in wonder. The rainbows of businesses and life going on around you surrounds you and draws you in. Blacks and browns and whites and blues and pinks and purples and not any greens but definitely every shade of brown swarm the cascade of houses that seem to go as far as the eye can see, although you know it’s in fact not very far at all. And the sounds of Reggae never leave your ears, but the sound of voices and laughter join the Reggae to make its own blend of music and noise. Your friend beside you holds his 5 month old baby as he tells you that it is beautiful, even though it may be hard to see. It is beautiful. And I say, yes. It is beautiful. And then his friend thanks you. For lowering yourself, that you may raise them up and it sounds oddly familiar and completely inaccurate. And you correct him profusely, no-this has lifted me up, this has opened my eyes. Thank you. Then you go through the valley on a short and thorough tour. And bright smiles meet you at every turn, and odd smells and sights arrest your senses and your eyes want to be everywhere at once. Processions of little kids gather around you, grab your hands with their grubby ones and smile at you toothless and awestruck chanting the only thing they know how to say, HOW ARE YOU! Which is about the extent of the conversation because when you answer back or ask how they are in return they stare blankly back. So you continue marching through the streets and over the bridges, taking in the colors and the peoples and the businesses and the personalities and the smells and the further you go, the further the procession gets and just when you don’t think your hand can hold any more tiny hands in it, one more latches on and your proved wrong. And then the sun begins to set and the tiny hands gradually begin to let go to make it home for supper and it’s time for you to return as well, so you begin making your way back to your room. And you wave to all the people you passed before and climb the stairs that lead back to the house and you glance down at the valley, once more at the cascade of houses and the colors and the kids and the smiles and the believe it or not edible foods and the families and the colors. And you think yes. It is beautiful.

I could tell you one more sad story. I could tell you that my two days and two nights in one of the two biggest, and the oldest slum in Africa was a terrifying, uncomfortable and an extremely sad experience. But I would be lying, because it wasn’t in the slightest. I could tell you that Mathare Valley is home to 800,000+ people in a 2 mile long by 1 mile wide area. I could tell you about the hundreds of little kids playing on trash heaps and covered in dirt. I could tell you that all anyone has is an 8 by 8 room made of sheet metal and cardboard and plastic bags. I could tell you that the floor is dirt and that the toilet/shower/sink is the gutter right outside your door. I could tell you that women sell their bodies in Mathare for an average of 100kshillings per client and that that is equal to $1.2 dollars in America. I could tell you that to pay for the meal I ate last Saturday, I would have had to have at least 10 clients. I could tell you about the people bathing in the sewage water. I could talk about how hard it is to find daily food. I might mention that there is no forms of security and even the police don’t dare enter Mathare. I could tell you the statistics. But this wasn’t my experience. My Mathare was beautiful. It had family, it had candles. It had a time that we have long since forgotten; it had a time where things are done the slow way. Where things are done the hard way, but by the end of the day your meal is much deserved. I could tell you the bad things-but then you would miss the beautiful. And how much Mathare is like the rest of the world. It is so easy to focus on the ugly and the bad. But while focusing on the ugly and the bad, we miss the beauty beneath the thin layer of dirt.