Volleyball Game

Volleyball and soccer are the two main sports played in Kenya. I had known soccer was a popular game, but volleyball came somewhat as a surprise. During countless evenings after working on projects throughout the day, we took a mental break by hitting the volleyball around in a group of four or five outside of the dispensary. Who would have known all that practice would have paid off? The second to last day in Mbakalo we had compiled a letter to be delivered to the Head Master of the Mbakalo Boys Secondary School requesting to compete against their squad. The following day we were informed that the request was accepted. Our team consisted of Pat, Simon (Coordinator), Henry (ABD Aids Barefoot Doctor), Victor (Soteni accountant), Ken (local friend), and myself. Back in the states Pat and I had brought over uniforms to be worn by the dispensary’s team. When we arrived to Mbakalo three weeks ago we were informed the team was already equipped with apparel, therefore this made giving the uniforms to our opponent a solid token of appreciation for allowing our participation on their grounds. The game was scheduled for 4 p.m. on Wednesday evening.
I felt some nerves while we were walking over to the school; almost as if I was preparing for an important baseball game back in the states. The school’s Head Master welcomed us at the gates. There was an assembly going on in the corridor so we entered softly. The team was already warming up in the backfield, so we walked over, introduced ourselves and distributed the uniforms to the opposing players. They were very thankful, but I laughed because they were all tall and the shirts appeared tight. Nevertheless their appreciation was repeatedly expressed. I was hoping for a warm up as well, but after we changed and put our uniforms on the game quickly began. There was two score keepers on either side of the poles to keep track and also judge whether the ball was in or out on certain plays. After winning the first match by only a few points the second game soon began. About halfway through, the school function had ended and all the students strolled over to watch the match. At one point about seventy to eighty kids surrounded the court and cheered for the school. Our fan base was only comprised of a few workers from Soteni, but despite a lack of cheering we prevailed in three out of the four matches. I was exhausted because of no substitutions and the fact that it was the first day I felt much better after being diagnosed with malaria.

Piki Piki Rides

The piki piki is the main mode of transportation in the villages. The most comparable vehicle in the United States that most closely resembles the piki piki would be a dirt bike/motorcycle. The majority of the time we traveled with three people on the bike; the driver and two passengers. I found myself being the smaller of the travelers, thus volunteered to be the in the middle of the trio. I am typically grasping the bars under the seat for dear life and exclaiming pole pole (slow down) when we barrel down the eroded, pothole-filled dirt roads. On our way back from visiting one of the OVC’s (Orphans and Vulnerable Children) a couple times, Simon, the coordinator of Mbakalo, insisted on driving. These were the times I feared for my life. At one point he stopped abruptly, trying to wedge our way around a wagon and I found myself face to face with a mule, who didn’t seem very amused. I proceeded to get off and refused to get back on until our actual driver resumed.
As of now the two pieces of luggage I should have added to my belongings are more toilet paper and a helmet for the piki piki. Two days ago I had arrived back into Nairobi after an eight hour bus ride from Mbakalo and we had gone to a Nakumatt (resembles a mall). The security guards in the mall all had helmets on, somewhat synonymous to a baseball helmet but without the padding underneath. I thought about trying to negotiate with one of them for his helmet because of the dyer need for a safety precaution on the bike. When I travel to the next village, Mituntu in the Eastern Province, that form of protection would certainly come in handy. In Mbakalo last week Pat and I had arranged to receive driving lessons from what we called Doug’s School of Driving, but the training was postponed, yet never rescheduled because of rain. Doug is the wife of Esther, the ABD supervisor, who insisted that we learn and tell our friends about his flawless training when we return to the states. Unfortunately, I have no stories or positive encouragement to relay to my friends about Doug’s Driving School, but hopefully someone in Mituntu will teach me the art of driving a piki piki.