Hands Touching Hands

There is one thing that Kenyans, children and adults alike, love more than anything—hand-to-hand contact. Whether you are meeting someone for the first time or greeting an old friend, it is always customary to shake hands. Except the hand shaking is more of a hand grab for an extended amount of time. Day after day, I touch the hands of all sorts of people in Migori, but this week I realized what it is that Kenyans love so much about shaking hands.

            After my first morning of rounds in the maternity ward, which including hearing a fetal heart beat for the first time, Kelsey and I helped Dr. Agullo discharge what seemed like the entire ward. We met women who had C-sections, hysterectomies, and one with a hernia the size of a basketball (that produced an interesting smell). The girls and I then headed to the supermarket to purchase toys and diapers for the orphans we would visit that afternoon. After a delicious lunch of lentils and chipati, another Kenyan classic, we piled in a taxi (I comfortably laid on top of everyone in the back seat) and drove 10 minutes across the hill to the orphanage. As we rolled up, we were greeted by lots of children, dogs, and chickens running around the yard. The man in charge, Peter, explained to us that one woman had been housing many orphaned children until he started the program Help for Self Help Good Samaritan Orphanage. The children living there slept in bunkbeds in rooms separated by gender. Two infants also lived in the home and were sleeping angelically when we arrived. As we took turns holding the baby boy, my heart melted in his big eyes and toothless smile. I had never seen such a happy baby after waking up from his morning nap. It took all I had not to take him and sprint to the airport where I could take him back to Colorado with me.

          

          We then walked back outside to give the kids all of our presents while they sang us a song “Welcome, welcome, our visitors. Happy to see you, happy to see you. Welcome, welcome, our visitahhhs!” complete with hand motions. They were so grateful for our presents, but were more interested in the visiting mzungus. What started as holding my hand lead to hugging my lead, and eventually I was holding smiling children in my arms. In fact, once I picked up one girl, she refused to let go of my neck while the other girls reached up to be held, too. The kids longed for human contact. They had been raised without loving parents to hold their hand while crossing the street or rub their backs until they fell asleep. Though Peter was searching for family members and volunteers to house the children, it was a difficult task. They wanted to be held lovingly like any other child, and I was happy to do so.

            As we piled back into the car, I felt tears forming in my eyes—a familiar feeling. The kids started singing again and waving “goodbye.” I had never felt the urge to jump our of a moving car until this moment. I looked into the eyes of children with no home and no family, but the huge smiles on their faces hid their pain. The car ride home was quiet as we all contemplated the futures of these children and how we could help them from feeling abandoned.

         

 The following day was Kenyan independence day, called Madaraka Day, which literally means freedom day. We went to the hospital at 8 as usual, but found ourselves alone in the doctors office. One of the clinical officers showed up and told us that no doctors were on duty today—it is a day of rest. We should go home and he invited us to join him for the celebration at the district hospital. Only Dr. Agullo was on call for the day and he was resting at home unless an emergency occurred. This, along with the fact that doctors are off all weekend, was troubling to us. The patients are left hardly monitored, in critical conditions, simply because doctors needed rest. We went through the rounds to check on Lucas, whose leg was amputated, and Collins, and they were both showing some improvement. Collins may be transferred to the district hospital where he can receive more blood transfusions because he has begun having severe bloody noses. However, when I walked in, he was just waking up and already grinning. We exchanged our daily high-five and I told him to “Get better, buddy!” though I know that he actually understands me. We prefer to communicate through charades and high fives.

            We were picked up from the residence a bit after 10 and made the hike through the scenic trails covered by trees and flowers until we reached the main road. The celebration was scheduled to begin at 9:45 but started around 11:37. Classic Kenya. As we walked to our seats, we found some fellow white people (the first we have seen in Migori) and exchanged “Hello’s” and laughs. The festivities included many dances and songs performed by children of the local primary and secondary schools. I felt like I was in a movie, watching the children dance around and sing—why are all of them so talented? Pride was bursting out of every Kenyan who attended the event. When the speeches in Swahili began, we decided to head home for lunch. It was incredible to get a taste of the Kenyan culture we had never seen before.

            That night, we all decided to hit the dance club, Bells, with the housekeeper, Judy. After practicing my dance moves in the living room for a while, we piled into another taxi and headed into town. As we pulled up, I was pretty intimidated to be the first fair-skinned girl stepping out of the car. However, we marched right in to the back of the club and sat down to order some beverages. After a few minutes, the crowd formed on the dance floor and my jaw dropped. Kenyan dancing includes a lot of head bobbing, hip swaying, and knee bouncing all at the same time. We were all dancing around our little table, when, of course, someone grabs my hand to lead me onto the dance floor. The grinning young fella dancing with me was dancing his heart out while the rest of the group was laughing hysterically at the only white girl on the dance floor. I was just trying dance without making a fool of myself. Within a few minutes, the rest of the girls surrounded me on the dance floor and lead me back to the table where I could dance in my own little zone. I was relieved not to have a smelly stranger in my face holding my hands and bobbing around, and luckily, he found a new dance partner—Rachel.

            As we continued dancing , Dr. Agullo rolled into the club with his wife and some other women. At this point, I became 100 percent sure that he is the coolest surgeon in the world. We left shortly after and were back home by midnight giggling about the night’s endeavors.

GO BLUE!

         
The weekend was filled with relaxing with friends, great food, and children running around the house at all times. When I went outside to jump rope, I was greeted by kids who wanted to join in the fun. I got them their own jump rope before we started an exciting round of double-dutch. They leaped and leaped while I sang songs producing lots of laughter. I gave lots of high-fives, but most turned into more handholding and leg hugging. I realized that when I put out my hands, whether it be for a high five or a dance, Kenyans of all ages take this as an invitation to be my friend. To hold someone’s hand is to say that you trust him or her. As I begin my final week at the hospital, I will keep this gesture in mind as I prepare to observe several surgeries and hopefully deliver a baby or two!