back in Mombasa to visit my mother

My Mum really is not well, mostly from long-term conditions (including Multiple Sclerosis, Ankylosing Spondylitis and Rheumatoid Arthritis), her 40+ years of anorexia, a gastric ulcer – and more recently with dementia.  She does not enjoy her life, but as we don’t have an ‘off switch’ she continues to wake up each morning to suffer yet another day of physical pain and mental distress.  She loves my visits but does not want me to stay at her place – far too stressful (I might put things back in the wrong place…), and my presence will lead to her using more electricity and gas which will increase her expenses.  So I booked myself into my usual hostel, with the understanding that I would take day trips out to my Mum’s house.

Visiting her is stressful.  She doesn't stop talking but often starts sentences then can’t remember what she was trying to say.  She has frequent panics about where she put her purse/keys/some important piece of paper.  She struggles to do things but if I try to help I inevitably put something in the wrong place or at the wrong angle, or just confuse her by being there, which causes her to lose her temper and shout – and then feel awful about it and explain to me that she has dementia…  I shouldn’t complain, as obviously all of this is far worse for her than for me, but still, I do find it stressful.

At the same time, it is nice to be able to help.  She no longer feels able to go out, but is wedded to a very specific diet, so I did a big shop for her (specific brands and sizes of packets of noodles, milk powder, digestive biscuits, barbecue sauce, coffee sachets, insect repellent, anti-histamines, etc), as well as a trip into central Mombasa to collect mail from her post box.  & I bought her a new padlock, as once again she has found evidence of neighbours entering her house (when she was out or asleep) and stealing money, food, and other things – she was particularly upset that they stole the nail scissors that she apparently used for me when I was a baby.  Then on one day’s visit, her phone buzzed (and any unexpected noise sends her bouncing nearly out of her chair in shock) with a message from one of the Kenyan phone services saying she had to urgently register her account at one of their offices, with identification documents, or her account would be ended; cue utter panic but then the realisation that she could take advantage of my being there to make the trek (walk, tuk tuk and matatu) to their nearest office, with my help, to get that done – which we did.  & a week later we had to make almost the same trek again so that she could get a doctor to witness her ‘proof of life’ form for the UK government, without which she would not continue to receive her pension (tomorrow I make the long trek into the centre of Mombasa to get this sent, registered mail).  The outings were successfully completed, although the one to the doctor was so difficult and stressful for her that later in the evening, after I'd left, she apparently found herself lying on the floor in her front room in a pool of blood, with a big wound on her head, presumably from fainting or somehow tripping over, she can’t remember.

During my trip I responded to a post I saw online looking for a volunteer for a nearby orphanage – not exactly something I’ve always wanted to do, but (1) it meant two weeks with all my accommodation and food costs covered, (2) it made my Mum VERY happy as the reason she originally came to Kenya back in 2006 was to volunteer at an orphanage, and (3) it would be a new – and very different – experience for me.  I was accepted and, somehow, I made it through the two weeks, although I HATED my time there.  It was not helped by being in an awkward situation where other volunteers there had all had to pay a fairly significant sum to the Spanish organisation which largely funds the place. Their official representative knew I had not come through them and so for the first few days she would not let me sit and eat with ‘her’ volunteers, she ordered me twice to change beds so that ‘her’ volunteers could be in the same room, and when at any moment she saw me not doing ‘volunteer tasks’ she had a go at me (even though we were strictly only required to work 5 hours a day) – if she had known that I had somehow got my place without paying anything at all for the ‘privilege’ of volunteering I think she would have just ordered me to leave!

It was also quite stressful that (for me at least) there was no ‘task list’ or other guidance as to what to do, other than to help make the children’s days better and maybe help the ‘aunties’ (the local ladies who look after the place and the children) – so I took a few English lessons (it’s their school holidays but they had a couple of text books), did the washing up whenever I could, chopped some tomatoes, and otherwise was at the mercy of the children.  Being hugged, being tickled, being chased round and round the table, arm-wrestling, having my hair endlessly played with and braided, and on one occasion being pee’d on by a youngster who fell asleep in my arms … no, it doesn’t sound very difficult, but there’s a reason I never wanted children!  This picture is the kitchen, with the plates of lunch (ugali and cabbage) about to be served.  It was taken in one of the very few moments when there was no smoke billowing out of the fire-based 'stove'.  The children asked me frequently why I was crying, and I had to explain that it was just the smoke making my eyes water.

Thankfully for the second week I was sharing a room with a young Italian volunteer, who found the endless noise and activity of the children, and the lack of clear direction as to what we were supposed to do, as difficult as I did, so he and I escaped occasionally to vent, which somehow made it all more bearable.

Some of the children did seem to enjoy my being there, from those who just wanted to be hugged to some of the older ones who would sit and chat with me, so I’d like to think that I did contribute something, as well as saving money (which then, of course, all went on shopping and other costs for my Mum…).

Forgive me, as I know I’m not supposed to think like this, but I have to admit that I will be happy when I board my flight out of here on 31 August.