A SPECIAL Special Needs School in Nairobi

Heshima is the kiswahili word for dignity. It's also the name of a small, but growing center for special needs children that Tracey Hagman started in the Ngando slum in the southwest corner of Nairobi. See: (http://www.heshima.org).

The center currently serves 14 children between the ages of 2 and 15. Heshima recently broke ground for a new school complex that Tracey envisions will serve up to 75 children.

Things I like love about this school:

 - to make sure all families are given the opportunity to pay for the services their children receive, mothers work part-time for Dignity Designs, a small jewelry business started at the center. They get an hourly wage for creating beautiful jewelry that is sold in Kenya and around the world.

 - two older children with cerebral palsy and cognitive deficits are being trained to become paid teacher assistants. The two boys set tables, help feed some of the younger children, make sure they get to the therapy rooms, push strollers, etc. These are children who would normally have no employment options to look forward to. What a sensible way to provide dignity and hope!

 - two substantial hot meals a day!

 - there are enough teachers, assistants and therapists to ensure that every child gets a lot of loving, one-on-one attention every day.

And, as an SLP, of course, I loved that there were visuals of activities, needs and behavioral expectations attached with Velcro to walls and trays.

I spent several hours at Heshima: problem-solving with Tracey and head teacher Nelly, working with three of the children, reading to little ones, and cuddling.

Spreading the Word

My last afternoon in Kenya, Nduta and I visited two medical clinics in Kibera, the largest slum in Nairobi and one of the largest in Africa. Our original purpose was to leave patient communication materials for people with communication difficulties, materials that were sent to us by Harvey Pressman and Sarah Blackstone of the Central Coast Children’s Foundation(CCCF). Nduta used the opportunity to open a much-needed dialog about people with special needs in Kibera. While her main love is AAC, she has recognized that these kids need to be identified first. She's making it her mission to make sure that these children are not only identified, but referred and served.

The reactions were interesting. 

 - The Tabitha Clinic (operated through Carolina for Kibera) - at first, the doctor we spoke with didn't think they had any patients who could benefit from the visuals, since “these people would come with their families, and the families can tell us what's wrong with them.” Under Nduta's questioning, he and the medical officer who gave us the tour acknowledged that there might be people in the community who have communication problems, but their outreach workers don't specifically seek them out. Nduta made it clear that people with communication issues needed to have a way to communicate independently, that she felt it was the clinic’s responsibility to find and refer these people, and that she would be happy to work with them to make sure this happened.

The walk to and from the Tabitha Clinic was  . . . challenging, even for able-bodied people. It’s a very narrow, winding 10-minute walk/climb from the CFK office over uneven terrain, around shacks, under laundry, through muck, trash and sewage, a jump down to cross the railroad tracks, then back up and more of the same. I learned later that during the expansion of the clinic – it’s now a 3-story building - all building materials and hospital equipment had to be carried along that same path from the CFK building.

 - Chemi Chemi ya Uzima (also in Kibera) – Initially, clinic workers couldn't think of any specific people in the community with communication difficulties. Then Rose, one of their outreach workers, mentioned one, and then another child with special needs the she “didn’t know what do with.” The last time Nduta wrote she said she and Rose were going out to visit four families that Rose had identified with special needs kids. 

The walk to Chemi Chemi was a different experience altogether. We had a large (it’s all relative) lot just outside Kibera, then around some local government offices, in the back door and out the front door of a tiny small bar/café (tables, one customer and a single TV), down a well-traveled dirt road, and over to the clinic compound.

I also left patient-provider communication visuals with the Nairobi SLPs, who were having their monthly meeting that morning at the Aga Khan Hospital (another post, I promise!). While they already had some good hospital visuals (mainly for describing procedures), they were happy to have a broader selection.

Being Behind in My Posts

I promise I'll get that last week caught up soon!

Jet Lag

Hate it.

Jump Rope in Kibera

Saturday, Wednesday and Thursday were jump rope days at Kibera. Cantar, the Carolina for Kibera Youth Sports Director, picked me up to attend a practice and performance in Kibera on Saturday. A slow-moving group of UN visitors and security vehicles through the largely unpaved roads of Kibera added an additional 40 minutes to the typical 5-minute ride to the Undugu Center.

Undugu technically is not a school - more of an activities/vocational training/educational center in Silanga, at the southeast corner of Kibera. Dennis, the Undugu administrator, is very proud of his part in offering outdoor space for the jump rope program, and hopes jump rope will spread throughout the center and the country.

The Kibera jump rope program is one of several Mike set up in 2009 and 2010 in Kenya and Tanzania with the help of a Leadership and Creativity Fellowship from Oberlin College. His hope has been that CFK would adopt the program and make it their own, and that's exactly what has been happening. CFK has made the jump rope program the second strand of their Youth Sports program (soccer was the first). Several of the original trainers have deepened their level of commitment and established practice formats that are decidedly their own. CFK is making sure the program grows steadily as space and staff become available, and the program is now up to more than 180 jumpers.

Saturday's performance was held after the first round elimination for the players who will represent Kenya at the 2011 Norway Cup soccer tournament this summer. As with all performances, this one started with the mandatory clearing of the largest stones from the field.

The jumpers were reserved at first but opened up once they learned I was "Mama Mike." (Nothing changes - I was "Mike Fry's Mom" for years in the USA Jump Rope World.) Everyone wanted me to tape their freestyle routines for Mike; the more gregarious asked me to record messages for him. And Thursday, more than a dozen jumpers  - some who had not even met Mike - brought in hand written notes, letters and small gifts for me to take back for him.

The practices, held at different sites in Kibera, are impressive for the obvious dedication of the trainers (you can often hear them in the background, exhorting the kids to push themselves), and the commitment and love for jump rope of the jumpers - no complaining, no slacking off, just multiple repetitions of each skill.

Taking the Slow Train . . .

Spent a lazy Thursday morning trying to get my suitcases organized. Everything fit into two, so I wanted to leave the third one with Dorothy and avoid paying $55 to bring it back into the US.  The morning went into hyperdrive when I found out that my bags had to be out of the room by 10:00. The outside temperature was back to blistering.

I had wanted to do a bit more looking around - and possibly some shopping - in Old Town, and Stephanie agreed to come along. Her bargaining skills were invaluable in securing some interesting gifts for Bill, as well as a large bag woven of baobab fiber. This bag has turned out to be my very own Mary Poppins bag - no matter how much I put in it, there's always room for more.

One tuk-tuk, one matatu and a short walk brought us back to Stephanie's house to visit the flip-flop burial ground and for one last walk on beach. The pit Coco had dug was more than two feet across, and had yielded not only my flip-flop but four of Mr. Rooke's socks as well. More socks had been discovered in other holes, as well as childhood toys that had been missing for years.

The beach was missing, completely covered by the rising tide, so we sat on the rocks above and watched the waves climbing the rocks.

Back to the Poly to pay for my stay there, then a tuk-tuk to Dorothy's to meet up with my security force, then on to the train station. The guys helped get my heavy suitcases onto the train and into my compartment, and insisted on watching over me until just before the train left at 7PM.

The compartments in First Class are tiny, even for one person, let alone the two they're designed for. In addition to the bunk beds, there's a small closet, tiny sink, trash compartment and a ladder for reaching the top bunk.

The Camera makes the cabin look larger than it is.

The corridor is so narrow you have to move into your compartment
when someone needs to pass by.

The fans in our compartments weren't working, so it was a relief to be called to the dining car for dinner, where the fans were plentiful and operational. The meal was surprisingly good - I had read that the dinner meal was generally the more disappointing of the two - but the conversation sparkled.

At my table:

• Rupert - a businessman from Malindi (several hours north of Mombasa), and a veteran of Kenyan train travel
• Barnaby - a young independent film maker who makes short promotional films for businesses
• Lucy - a young make-up artist/costumer/special effects genius with a small British TV production company.

Rupert kept us in stitches the entire evening, and somehow managed to turn the rest of us - all quiet by nature - into clever and witty conversationalists.

Back in my room for the night, I joined in the collective cheers when the fans began working. Periodic power fluctuations would dim the lights and slow the fans. I tried to blog, but wasn't able to get a reliable Internet connection, and the motion and sound of the engine finally lulled me to sleep.

The train stopped just before 7:00 AM for what we thought was a short stop. We later learned that a train ahead of us had broken down and was awaiting assistance. My breakfast companions included a quiet Indian mother with limited English, and her son (maybe 9 or 10 years old?), who said nothing. He left the table while we were being served and his mother followed after having a few bites.

The fourth person at the table was Noemie, a young Belgian woman with Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders), who was returning from a week in Lamu. She had spent the week before that in Nairobi, interviewing local MSF medical personnel who were applying for international (traveling) MSF positions.

We talked for several hours, and tried to get train staff to give us some idea of when we might be arriving in Nairobi (responses ranged from one to three hours late – not sure how the one hour figure was arrived at as the train had been stopped for more than two hours by that time). Passengers who had planned morning or midday meetings were stressed, and nearly everyone had someone to call to change pickup arrangements. "Don't come to the station - I'll call when I get in" was the phrase of the day.

An isolated two-bungalow compound along the tracks.

After an additional few hours of conversation and several large animal sightings (unfortunately the camera operator wasn't quick enough), we finally arrived in Nairobi - just 5 hours past the scheduled 9 AM arrival time.

School and Spice Shopping

Last night's rain gave Mombasa the first pleasantly warm day in the week and a half I've been here. The rain stopped about 7, and the power went on shortly thereafter. It was so breezy I left the fan off, then turned it back on just before I left to dry the rest of the laundry.

I called Peter, my "regular" tuk-tuk driver for an early morning trip to the railway station. He showed up 45 minutes later in the back seat of someone else's tuk-tuk. His was out of commission for the day and he had found someone else, come with him to pick me up and then sent us to the station. I had no trouble getting a ticket for the Thursday night train.

After an early morning trip to the railway station to get my ticket for the Thursday night train, I went to Mombasa Academy to observe in Stephanie's Mom's class. Diane runs a special needs class of about 20 students with the help of four assistants, a great ratio for successful learning and the molding of positive behavior patterns . She is calm, firm and creative. The walls are filled with bright posters and drawings, and books, toys and games her own children have outgrown are everywhere.

Stephanie, who helps out a couple hours each day, was particularly excited because the little boy who was her "case study" for the workshop had just learned to request "toilet" that morning using a small single-message device. He pealed with delight at her voice coming from inside the little talker, at the big deal she was making, and at being immediately rushed to the bathroom. The day before he had been taught to request water in a similar fashion. This is a child who had not used any sort of AAC until last week when Stephanie introduced the picture display she had created during one of the workshop sessions.

I spent a bit of time with a bright 7-year old who was using tongue depressors to help with subtraction, but was nearly ready to handle the problems without them. I asked about doing one of the "easier" ones (10-9) in his head. "I already have the 10 in my head," he explained. "Where shall I put the 9?"

Nuala, another of the local speech-language therapists dropped by the Academy to pick me up for an afternoon of shopping, along with her friend Judy, a former OT volunteer in Mombasa. We stopped for Indian buffet  - spicy food and lassi, a refreshing yogurt drink.

Just inside the market area, we came upon a spice shop with good prices. Most were 50 KES - about 60 cents - for sealed 30 gram bags. I left with an assortment of seasonings and spices, genuine saffron (not "Indian saffron," which is actually turmeric), and blocks of jaggery, an unrefined cane sugar (sometimes palm tree sugar), all for other people. Now I'm hoping I can find a good spice shop in Nairobi and buy for myself.

The spice shop haul - my suitcase smells heavenly.

Back to the Poly, then off to Dorothy's to take Brian shopping for school shoes - it's hard keeping size 8 feet in size 7 shoes. Once back at Dorothy's - my last dinner in Mombasa - I watched dozens of chapatis being made for the evening meal and the next day's lunch. I hope the video clip gives you an appreciation for how time intensive the process is - remember, it doesn't include making the dough and forming it into balls.

Then dinner, gifts and goodbyes - not final goodbyes, though, because Dorothy insisted that I be properly accompanied to the train station tomorrow afternoon by Brian and an older cousin. She was appalled that I had made the trip alone this morning.