They called me Silwal

It's the golden hour as we meander through the beach at Luanda Rombo, the village next to Alekii. Bathed in the evening sun the main street is a chaos of activity. Several children from my school are chasing after a makeshift football made from carefully collected leftover plastic bags tied together with broken fishing lines whilst cooking stoves waft over steam from ugali pots cooked by mothers looking on. In the distance I can hear the pocho mill whirring it's daily routine as a queue of patient girls exchange the day's gossip waiting to grind their freshly harvested maize. 

In many ways it's an idyllic scene. About as far from the rat race as you could get, laughter in abundance and a happy melancholy that hangs in the air. The local shop keeper, barber, and a few drunken fishermen greet me and I return each of them in Luo, their mother tongue.

Apart from London where I was brought up and now live, and Manchester where I studied, Luanda Rombo is the place I've spent most time and know best in the whole world.

The literal translation into English is Sheep's Stone which refers to the old grazing pastures for shepherds and farmers to bring their livestock to drink from the lake. Today the village is home to a few hundred Luo people which centres around a small beach where fishing boats rock gently in the evening breeze. Women are collecting omena, small fish, from nets on the ground where they've been drying the morning's catch in the sun.

Omena are tiny fish which form the cornerstone of the local diet. They are typically dried, and then boiled or fried. For the uninitiated both the smell and flavour can be overpowering and it takes a while to build up a tolerance, but it's cheap and full of protein which is why Luos love it.

Typically it will be the women who buy direct from the boats in the morning, dry and sell omena in the sun and sell in local markets. For many it's the only way they know how to make a living for their families. Lake Victoria has been significantly over-fished and fishermen have reported a fall in catch over the last few years meaning there is less omena to sell and more competition between women who want to buy it.

This, combined with a staggeringly high HIV infection rate(at least one in four across the county and much higher by the beaches) means that women like Sarah* are forced into having sex with fishermen to win their favour and make sure that they are first in line to buy fish. These fishermen will often have several relationships with different women across the island which contributes to the spread of the virus. This is known as 'Jaboya' around the lake and is widespread, found in every beach where there is omena fishing.

Other women like Anne* who manages a boat are forced to have sex with fishermen just to make sure that they keep working for them and don't move to another boat. When we interview Anne for our documentary she calls them parasites who feed off her. Anne also tells us that she is HIV positive. Sarah is still to be tested.

The fishermen are fundamentally flawed characters, living from one day to the next. Drinking, drugs and gambling are all the norm rather than the exception, money coming and going too easily and too quickly.

We meet Ezekiel who's bloodshot eyes and slurred speech betray all the signs off a life lived for today rather than tomorrow. He tells us that his life fishing is hard, and is getting harder as they catch less and less fish. He says he drinks and smokes bhang because they help with the cold at night, and that most fishermen do the same. He also says he has a girlfriend who he sells fish to at another beach across the lake from his wife and family.

I feel like I should be angry or disgusted with Ezekiel, but in the end I feel a deep sympathy for him. There are no choices for men like him other than to work on the boats in hard conditions, and the short term nature of living hand to mouth gives rise to alcoholism and drug abuse when men are continually away from their families for long periods.

More significantly though it feels like Ezekiel's life has little purpose, one day staggering into another devoid of plans or aspirations for the future. It's like he just exists rather than actually lives.

This is a stark contrast to the amazing women that we meet, who although faced with serious hardship and struggle exert a tremendous warmth and humour. Spending time with Sarah and her nine year old son gives an insight what real purpose means for local women who would do anything for their children. At the end of the day these are people who's environment and circumstances shape their lives but don't necessarily define them.

Generally Luos are good natured people characterised by the Lake - typically laid back and easy going, funny and quick to make jokes but ultimately extremely hard working which comes with the territory being a fishing community.

They are the third biggest ethnic group in Kenya and although they have never been in power, but have played an important role in Kenya's history. In 1963 as Kenya became an independent country it was Tom Mboya, a Luo from Rusinga, who mobilised international support for the new country, making relationships with the West and in particular promoting university partnerships with America which is how Barack Obama's father first made it to the states on a scholarship programme.

In 1969 Tom Mboya was assassinated in Nairobi, and although never proven many Luos believe that his murder was politically motivated to keep him out of power. At his trial, the assassin referred to a 'Big Man' who should have been standing trial instead, possibly referring to a higher conspiracy from the ruling party.

Today the leader of the opposition coalition, Raila Odinga, is Luo and is currently mobilising support for a referendum on whether the government should stay in power. He needs one million signatures under the country's new constitution to make this happen and there will be significant consequences for the country if he's successful in reaching this target.  

As I sit down by the bank of the shore to watch the setting sun paint the lake and the sky one last time, I replay the last three months. There have been difficult times for sure - there are significant social problems here on Rusinga and during darker moments it can be difficult to see the light and not feel like the whole situation is helpless.

However together with Alekii, some talented local fixers and the community we have launched an impact investment club which raised just under £11,000 in a month, researched and launched a consumer transport business and shot a film about Jaboya and life on the fishing  communities. This won't necessarily change the world of course, but the collective efforts of the last ten weeks should sustain Alekii and raise the profile of the community and the issues they face.

It's just the start, and there's a lot to do still, but at a glance we've been successful in what we originally set out to do.

It also occurs to me that I've come to really identify with Luos. Their food, their politics, their language, their music, their problems and their jokes have all become mine as I've lived here.

I'm honoured on my last day on the island as the Alekii family offer me a plot of land to own and build on which I'm humble to accept. This will be the next project I think, to build something lasting which can benefit the local community but also be mine to use when I visit.

I've absolutely loved learning their language which is peppered with smiles and laughter and I plan to try and become one of only a handful of whites who are fluent in my lifetime.

My favourite phrase, and the one that earns me most respect, is 'A ja Luo gi chunya' which translates to 'I'm Luo in my heart' which I now understand to be true. I  know that I will return many times to this part of the world which has become a second home with a second family.

As the sky kaleidoscopes orange to purple the peace and serenity is abruptly shattered by a gaggle of Alekii kids who descend on me London riot style. Most of them jump around me shouting my English name, but Caroline, a very bright girl who also plays an aggressive Roy Kean type enforcer role in midfield greets me by my Luo nickname. 'Silwal' means 'brown' in Luo (rather than being referred to generically as musungo which means white) which was given to me by an elder and adopted by Luanda Rombo residents to my delight.   

Darkness approaches and people shout greetings and farewells as I walk up the dusty hill away from the village, and I smile inwardly feeling accepted - they called me Silwal.

* Name changed / real photos not used. 

A viewpoint from a cultural crossroad

We Jackson men are known for our washing up skills. The old man is so keen in fact, that unwitting dinner guests often have their have their half-finished plates whisked away ninja style from under their noses to the kitchen.

My brother and sister and I were raised to do our fair share, and to value equality and fairness, in this case that if someone else had slaved over hot pots and pans all afternoon they should be allowed to put their feet up in front of Corrie afterwards.

Growing up our family had fairly fluid roles when it came to work and home life. My Mum successfully launched and ran several businesses and supported the family when my Dad was made redundant and decided to do his Masters degree. Perhaps nothing out of the ordinary today but it felt a bit special at the time to be picked up from school by your Dad who let you sit precariously on his bike's handlebars as we zig zagged down the hill past my friends walking home with their mothers.

This belief that although we might not be born the same, that we all have the right to be treated with equal respect and be given the same opportunities is fundamental. For me personally, it's part of what I think makes us human.

Although certain progressive strides have been made in Kenya (for example making female circumcision illegal), the general attitude here towards women still grates with me.

I'm told by an elder, 'Why would you wash your own clothes when you have sisters?' which is symptomatic of the male outlook. The conversation sticks with me and I keep seeing this attitude in the roles that are prescribed to men and women. For instance, to me it's entirely unfair when young women are expected to go out and work and then come home to fetch the water and do all the cooking, cleaning and washing whilst men are waited on.

It strikes me that culturally Luos are at a half way point between the new world (modern, educated women working in professional jobs) and the old one (preconceptions about women's work and place in the home). Elsewhere in society there are more serious social problems associated with this mind-set.  

This week I've spent time with local NGO Dev Link who work on promoting human rights and safety for women. Discrimination is rife when it comes to gender, reports of violence against women are often ignored and the HIV/AIDs epidemic has left huge numbers of vulnerable to abuse in the face of abject poverty.

The root causes are complex, but often stem from an old Luo tradition of men 'inheriting' wives in the event of a death of a husband. Salmon, a kind and compassionate programme manager at Dev Link tells me that in generations past the tradition was meant to protect and provide for women, to ensure that the deceased's name lived on.

A polygamous people, a brother-in-law or other close relative would traditionally take on the inheritance of the wife. In generations past, to have multiple wives signified success and the means to provide, and men with only one wife would not be permitted a voice in community discussions for this reason.

Although attitudes are changing and fewer and fewer Luos take multiple wives, the practice of inheritance still persists. Again, the old and the new clash, sometimes with grim consequences. Today, Rusinga has a transient population as poverty inland forces people to relocate away from their families to the coast to find work as fishermen. In parallel, the HIV epidemic (27% infection rate across the island at the last count) mean that there are more deaths and consequently more women left isolated from their extended families and without a dependable source of income.

Wife inheritance in this setting can become abusive, where women are often forced to accept the offer of a local man in the absence of their extended family in exchange for security. These men are often motivated by sex or wealth rather than the intention to support a grieving and vulnerable family. Violence is not uncommon in these circumstances, and I'm shaken by one case where an inherited wife was first abandoned whilst pregnant before being brutally attacked with a machete by the new husband. Luckily she survived, but there have been a number of murders involving wife inheritance. Dev Link tell me that they are seeing at least one new case like this every month, and estimate that many more go unreported.

Although Kenyans have a constitution of rights, actually accessing them is another matter. Corruption, favouritism and the sheer cost of travelling to and from court for trial has meant that accessing justice through the police and the judiciary is far from universal.

More broadly, many other widows are forced into a practice called 'Jabyoa' which is where women are forced to offer themselves sexually to fishermen in order to be given the chance to buy fish to sell on for a meagre profit in the local market. The practice is so ingrained that many women don't necessarily see a problem with Jaboya, or at least see it as a necessity or way of life here, yet the health impacts are severe and Jaboya is one of the driving factors of the region's significant HIV rate.  

Essentially the problems facing women are a product of poverty. A combination of a lack of education, lack of opportunities to earn a livelihood and poor access to healthcare result in the narrowing of choices and the accompanying social problems. 

It paints a bleak picture, and you'd be forgiven for thinking that the atmosphere on the beaches would be dark and depressed when actually the reverse is true. The women I meet and photograph smile brightly and laugh generously. They are enterprising, and more and more are running their own businesses and managing their own money.

Dev Link is run by a truly inspirational woman called Esther Soti who has set up several projects across the region where girls are rescued from early marriage and abusive relationships, has led campaigns against Jaboya and trains local women to become paralegals to handle human rights abuses in courts.

I hope that this is symptomatic of the next generation and broader cultural and systemic change. Attitudes are shifting slowly, and there is real hope that in the future women will not just be afforded their rights, but become the leaders in their communities, in business and in government.

Pivotal to long term change are like organisations like Alekii delivering primary education to girls to afford them choices in the way they choose to live their lives, who they chose to share them with, and how they make a living.

In the mean time for me it's back to the washing up. I know it's only small, but I'm teaching the younger boys in the family that if they want to play football, first you either cook or you have to do the dishes. That's only fair. 

Dreams from my Grandfather

My grandfather's name was Reg Silletto. What a name. He was, and continues to be, an inspiration to me and I'd like to share why.

My earliest memories of him always involved him peering at me over the business pages of The Daily Telegraph. He was the entrepreneur of the family, a great salesman (and talker), and meticulous with numbers.

The story begins in the 1950's where he'd become sales director of a well established engineering firm in Scotland. He travelled widely, particularly across Northern Ireland and the Republic and got to understand the challenges small farmers faced. In Ireland inherited land was divided between sons rather than passing to the first born meaning that over the centuries farms became smaller and smaller making it extremely difficult to make a decent living.

Following the unexpected death of the firm's well respected managing director, the board decided to bring in a new MD with a very chequered past and a suspected history of defrauding unsuspecting investors. Reg's opinion was that the new guy was a con man, and protested the same to the board. His disapproval was met with deaf ears though, and he was issued an ultimatum - either fall in line or show yourself the door.

                               

He chose the latter. Whether it was out of genuinely out of principle or pride I'll never know. Maybe it was a bit of both. I'd like to believe that his values drove his decision though, that he felt that he couldn't work for alongside others who tolerated dishonesty, and that his complicity would define him accordingly.

Meanwhile, in Denmark a young engineer was working on a new prototype that would eventually revolutionise the farming industry in Ireland. Small but powerful machinery that perfectly suited the small farms found up and down the country. 

If his first decision took principles, the next one took courage. The Danish engineer offered him three prototypes to sell in Ireland and the whole family invested everything they had relocating to Drogheda. The risks were huge, going it alone to sell an unknown, untested product in a foreign country would eventually exhaust all their savings. When they arrived the family were so poor that my Mum had to go to school in her old uniform because they couldn't afford new clothes.

He set up premises on a disused piece of land next to a railway station, painted the new machines himself and sold them. The rest is history, orders came flooding in, a new factory was built and dealerships throughout Ireland, Scotland and England opened. Years later, with delicious irony, he was even offered the opportunity to take over his old firm who by then had fallen on hard times. In the end he decided against it and they eventually went under.

In his later years he branched into property and invested wisely in the stock market. He used to split his portfolio and go head to head with his investment firm which year after year he'd usually outperform.

He wasn't perfect of course. As with so many entrepreneurs who focus so intently on their businesses, his family felt his absence. Although he inspired loyalty, he was a difficult man who wanted things his own way and wasn't tolerant of those who didn't bow to his authority. But at his core, I like to believe that he was a man driven to success, but not at the expense of his principles which is why I respected him so much.

So why am I telling you all this? Well, had Reg been alive today he almost certainly would have believed that many of the problems facing developing countries could be solved through trade and enterprise. And I believe the same.

In her unflinching book Dead Aid, Dambisa Moyo highlights the fall out of decades on unchecked government aid doled out to African dictatorships. Put very simply, her argument is two-fold: One, at a systemic level aid made these new African economies inefficient, corrupt and ill equipped to compete on a global scale which is why Asia and South America's growth in comparable free market economies has been significantly faster. Two, that at an individual level aid creates a dependency culture where people and their communities learn to rely on hand outs rather than work towards prosperity.

Across East Africa I've seen the dependency culture for myself. Why would you go out and work or collaborate with your community to improve yourselves when the white man will come and do it for you for free? At Alekii I was angered but not surprised that one of the teachers quipped 'Yes but the musungos (whites) will just pay for everything' whilst talking about the future of the school. 

Working in Uganda I remember a volunteer teacher who bought a pair of shoes for one of her pupils because he had injured his toe on the 3 mile walk to school he did barefoot every day. Completely understandable, but the unintended consequences were grizzly - the following day five or six of her classmates came to school with cuts on their feet that they had inflicted on themselves with razor blades to get new shoes.

This is an isolated, extreme case of course, but perhaps symbolic of the dependency culture and behaviours that we in the West can stimulate through aid.

Clearly philanthropy (and in fact aid) still has an essential role to play in development overseas, particularly with health and humanitarian response where there are scant alternatives. However, for Alekii to stand on its own, the solution has to be free enterprise which can run alongside the school providing a sustainable income and creating jobs and opportunity for the community. The challenge, of course, is capital.

Impact investing has been around for half a decade and is rapidly growing in popularity in the financial sector. It can take various different forms, and investors may expect various different levels of return, however what is common is that there is a measurable impact which is reported alongside the return on investment.

I've always believed that at it's purest sense modern consumerism is a quite a good proxy for democracy. Every time you buy something you vote. You vote for a company's ethical policies, their commitment to workers' safety. Of course this assumes we are all informed consumers which isn't always the case, but the truth is that we hold a lot more power in our everyday spending than we realise.

This is doubly true of our investments where we have real scale and influence to demand that we not only make a good return, but that we also create some positive change that mirrors our own values. I don't see why creating a positive impact and making a return on an investment should be mutually exclusive.

It's for this reason that I'm launching The Alekii Harambee Club - an impact investment club in partnership with the Alekii Centre.

In Kiswahili 'Harambee' literally means 'all pull together', or joining hands as a group, community or even country to achieve a particular goal. It became common language as Kenya gained independence from British colonial rule in the early sixties where the likes of Jomo Kenyatta (Kenya's first president) strove to join the many disparate tribes in search of self determination, unity and prosperity. In modern Kenya the word harambee provokes a sense of togetherness - the Kenyan national football team for example are known as the Harambee stars.

The concept for the club is simple - members will invest in new start up businesses on Rusinga Island that a. provide above market returns for investors and b. deliver benefit to the community by way of education, employment or other social/environmental benefit.

Profits over a fixed term will be divided 50:50 between club members and the Alekii Centre to invest in education, youth training, healthcare and other measurable social impact programmes which will be reported to club members along with their earnings. After the term has expired the enterprise and it's assets are released back to the community.

I know many of you have expressed an interest in this kind of programme in the past. Either because you share these kind of views on development, have become disillusioned with traditional philanthropy or are just looking for good investment opportunities for your portfolios.

As I write I'm in Nairobi dotting the I's and crossing the T's of our pilot enterprise business plan which looks extremely promising as well as a club constitution for new members.

I'll be approaching some of you directly with our plans over the coming weeks, but if you're interested in joining the Alekki Harambee Club then please comment or email me at davidshanejackson@gmail.com and I'll make sure you're part of the first initial offering which is due to complete in August.

We plan to start small and prove the concept works, but our aspirations are much larger. The beauty of an enterprise approach to development is that it can be quickly scaled, and I hope in ten years time the club will become a significant force for good in the local area backed by a group of happy investors in the UK.

I owe a lot to my Grandfather. Many of the decisions I've made in my life simply wouldn't have been possible without him and I've always held myself accountable to his ideals and values. In launching the Alekii Harambee Club I hope to, in my own small way, emulate the traits that made him great - becoming an entrepreneur, acting according to my values and having courage. 

I hope you'll consider joining me.

On true grit and determination

'Liet charma' - it means I'm hot in Luo, the mother tongue of the Luo tribe who live along the shores of Lake Victoria in South West Kenya. Sweating, I count eleven people crammed into the bashed up Toyota estate waiting for one last passenger to reach full capacity so we can leave. The owner's shouting manically  at no one in particular 'Mbita, Mbita, Mbita" which makes me smile though as it means that I'm almost back in my home away from home.

I'd arrived via Abu Dhabi and Nairobi. I'd been visiting friends on the way, and the abundance and excesses of the Middle East feels obscene here where the so many survive on less than $1 a day. Mbita, my destination, is the town on Rusinga Island. It's beautiful, but poor. Set on Lake Victoria, fishing dominates the local economy with many businesses living and dying based on the success or failure of last night's catch.

In Nairobi I'd attended a strategy meeting for AMREF, one of Africa's largest health NGOs where they'd been setting their business plan 2014-17. Their HQ based in Nairboi, AMREF is a proudly African organisation with a mantra 'African solutions to African problems'.

This chimes nicely with the reason for my trip. For six years the Alekii school which delivers free or subsidised  education to children affected by poverty and HIV/AIDs has survived on donations from the West. Volunteers like me have contributed to building a new school building in 2012, and more recently the incredible generosity of donors from the UK have kept the school running paying essential running costs like teacher's salaries. But Alekii is a Kenyan school, run by a capable group of Kenyans and our vision is to become self sustainable and relinquish the dependence on donations.

Tackling HIV/AIDS is a large part of AMREF's work, and this is particularly prominent along the shores of Lake Victoria where the infection rate is as high as 40%. Part of the reason for this is a local custom called 'Jaboya', or exchanging sex for fish. Women, often widows, are forced to offer themselves to fishermen in exchange for being first in line to buy the catch to sell at the market and make a meagre living to support their families. Jaboya is one the main reasons that the HIV/AIDS infection rate is so high in this region, and we plan to shoot a short documentary to highlight the problem, thus forming the second reason for me returning to the island.

Back to the overcrowded Toyota and a man with a chicken has jammed himself contortionist style into the boot and we're off. As the island peeks appear over the bumpy ridge, I worry about the state that I'll find the school in. The last two years have not been easy for the family who run the it - in 2012 a tropical storm blew the roof off the new school building, the project coordinator was evicted losing his family home and business in the process, and in May of this year another storm collapsed a wall in the family home putting their grandfather in hospital with a broken leg.

When I eventually arrive at the family home which is next to the school grounds I'm pleased to see that everyone is in good spirits. Alekii is truly a family run organisation, and I'm greeted warmly by the sons, daughters, grandchildren and grandparents who run the day to day operations and will be my hosts for the next two months.

They tell me that the school is surviving, but barely. Fundraising has taken a back seat while the family focus on rebuilding themselves after recent set backs. The teachers have not been paid this month and the family are scraping together the little they have to try and continue the school's feeding programme of daily porridge.

I'm a fundraiser, and I feel I should relish this kind of challenge but I feel nervous. There's a lot riding on this trip and we need to get it right. The following day we begin putting a plan together. There are essentially four income streams for the school: contributions from parents, the school's volunteer programme, grants from institutional funders and enterprise projects.

We focus on the quick wins and begin contacting prospective volunteers which result in a handful of confirmations and we're off. We meet with local offices from various government departments and chase funding applications and begin planning future applications for more significant infrastructure projects. The school needs a new classroom to meet the demand of the community and the Kenyan government are offering funding for this kind of work.

As we progress, I feel more confident now that the building blocks are in place. We pay the teachers who have waited patiently for their salaries and budget carefully for the next quarter.

Luos have a saying 'Mos mos' which means slowly slowly, or bit by bit. This is the pace here and it takes me a while to adjust to back to it. The first order of the day on arrival was to arrange some wheels. In the UK buying a bike would be a relatively straight forward affair but here it takes two full days, involves a 200 mile round trip and even then the pedal falls off having ridden the thing for just two minutes.

I'm not complaining though -  my routine is wonderful. The day starts at 5.30 with kickboxing training made possible by two kind friends in the UK who donated the equipment. My training partners, both named Evans, are tough young athletes who are both training for army trials later in the year. I can tell you that putting in the miles with Kenyans is no joke, although on our first outing a crowd of school kids join us on our run and a group of around 30 jog through the town in a bizarre scene that amuses the locals. This week I felt buoyed keeping pace until I realised that Evans was wearing flip flops.  

Solar power is coming to the island which is brilliant to see, and there is an ambitious plan to bring panels and lights to every household over the next year. For now though, there is no power at the school and I spend my mornings at the Solar Hub working to plan our fundraising sat next to bright, well educated young Kenyans who are learning everything from Word to Photoshop. There's so much potential here, if not the jobs to make use of it.

Afternoons are spent coaching the school's football team, and inspired by England's woeful performance against Uruguay I decide that if I'll be successful if I leave with the team playing a decent passing game and being able to control the ball. Now wherever I go into the village there's guaranteed to be a gaggle of youngsters yelling 'Pass, touch, pass' at me. Not quite Ferguson-esque yet but we'll get there.

Having been here for two weeks now I'm struck again by an overwhelming sense of grit and determination in the people I meet. People are tough here because you have to be. There's no safety net for emergencies or NHS when your family gets sick. The school has survived in the face of significant hardship only because of the will of the community. Yet there is a genuine belief that together we can ensure that it continues to grow and thrive.

Right now we're busy putting business plans together now for an enterprise scheme which will sustain the school for the long term and create jobs for the community which I'm excited to share, but aren't quite ready yet. The numbers look like they add up though, and we're all determined to make it work. 

Homecoming

And so back to Rusinga. The island in South West Kenya where I lived and worked last year supporting the Alekii self help group. This family of inspirational educators and community workers have worked tirelessly over the last three years to deliver quality education to a generation of children decimated by the regions high HIV/AIDS infection rate (currently estimated at 40% of all adults).

Last year the Kenyan department of health had condemned their school building as unsafe, and they faced closure. 75 children aged between four and nine faced an uncertain future without school.

I arrive under darkness, a familiarly precarious journey with several people, bags and cases shoved onto the motorbike taxi driving at full speed through the dusty bussle of Mbita, the main town on the island. Small fires litter the sides of the street with bubbling stoves and steaming plates of food being prepared for fishermen before they set off for their nights work. Livestock amble aimlessly alongside barefoot children and girls gossiping, huddled in colourful giggling gangs.

As I wonder through the crowds a wonderful sensation of coming home fills me, and I smile at what is to come over the next two days.

Here I meet Francis, the programme co-ordinator for Alekii and his wife Olga. These two are simply heroic in what they have achieved with so little - as well as running a successful computer business, beauty salon, raising their beautiful children, chairing the school's PTA, organising exams, arranging the financing for the project, they have been busy rebuilding Alekii over the last three months and it has now re-opened.

I'm overjoyed to meet their new addition to the family, two month old David Shane Jackson Opiyo who lights up the room with gurgling laughter and toothless smiles. Holding him I realise what an incredible sacrifice Francis and his family have made for the Alekii school - they selflessly give roughly a fifth of everything they earn to the school and yet have a young family to support.

Last year, with enormous support from friends and family, we were able to raise the funds to build a new structure and move the children to a new building - Alekii II. Using funds from our donors, and labour from the children's parents, the new school is a simple structure made from gleaming iron sheets which reflect the hot sun, and locally sourced materials to provide the frame.

Early the following morning I take a tour of the school by myself and marvel at what they have achieved. The rising sun illuminates news classrooms, desks, blackboards and a small office for meetings with parents and hopefully one day a head teacher to work from.

What's more, the land adjacent to the school has been cleared to make room for a playing field, and there are basic toilets adjoining the school. With a water pump providing clean, safe water in the next field, the new Alekii school now has the foundations to become something significant for the next generation of children in this area.

As the day breaks, the school begins to fill up and I see familiar faces and new students alike running up from the village. Suddenly I find myself surrounded by youthful energy and I remember why this project became so important to me - this is raw potential in its truest form. We just need to give it a place to thrive.

Later, as the committee sits to discuss what still needs to be done to complete the school, a teacher brings seven year old Frank Omondi to the leaders. He has severe swelling around his face and we suspect he has malaria. The decision is made to take him to the hospital where his condition is confirmed. Luckily because of the teacher's quick diagnosis he is able to receive medication, however there is a real chance that had he not been seen he could have died.

Tragically, in the three years since the school opened four pupils have died of conditions which could have been treated had diagnosis happened earlier. High transport and hospital fees coupled with a lack of understanding about symptoms of serious illnesses mean that many parents will take a 'wait and see' approach which leads to deaths which so easily could have been prevented. I begin mentally making plans for an emergency fund which the school could administer to cover these costs and a healthcare outreach programme to better inform parents and the community generally about the importance of early intervention.

As the sun sets, I take some time to photograph the fisherman. They are the keystone of the community here as everyone relies on the money they make to survive, and use floating kerosene lanterns to attract fish at night. When there is a full moon, their technique doesn't work and effectively the whole local economy shuts down and people go hungry.

I sit watching as they light their lamps, the warm glow of the burning kerosene filling expanding darkness with light. It's a hard life, and I wonder how many of these men had a chance to fulfil their ambitions, whether they were denied an education, and what whether they will live to see their children achieve theirs.

Francis, previously a fisherman himself, tells me that above all fishing teaches you patience and perseverance. Crews for the small boats will row for up to three hours through rain and choppy seas to reach a good spot where fish are found in great numbers. They will often wait for hours, huddled under plastic sheets to protect themselves from the rain or just stare silently into the night as not to disturb their catch.

I think this above all typifies the Alekii school's approach - having stared down the barrel of closure last year, their persistence and hard work have built a movement in their community which has the potential to grow and be a major force in giving opportunities to hundreds of young people for years to come. Thank you to everyone who has supported the project so far, without you none of this would have been possible.

But there is still much to do. The school building needs to be waterproofed and fitted with doors. The floor needs concrete to survive the rains. Windows and internal walls need to be built to improve the interiors.

An emergency fund and healthcare programme needs to be introduced to avoid preventable deaths for pupils of the school.

And most importantly, a sustainable income source needs to be found to pay the ongoing costs for teachers, exam fees, school uniforms and food for lunch. One that is owned and run by the community so they will not have to rely on donors to survive, and that will grow as demand for the school does. There is talent and ideas here already to achieve this. But we need capital to begin.

I need contacts in microfinance, healthcare, education, banking, agriculture, community workers, accountancy and law to get this project really moving. I need fundraisers to give their time to run, cycle or swim with me to raise money to finish the school. If you think that you could help in any way, please email me at davidshanejackson@gmail.com

On my last night I am given a blessing by the family and I am sure that this place gives me purpose. A very wise man once said to me that a man without a goal is dead. For some years my goal has always been to make a significant, positive impact on people or planet. I now know where. 

Lessons

And so we come to the end...


When I was travelling in Asia, every time my friend and I shouldered our wardrobe sized backpacks to set off somewhere new he would always ask "What have we learned?". Back then it was generally a list of misdemeanours - "Don't try and fit eight people in a Bangkok tuk-tuk" and so on and so on."  

Several years on, whilst there are similar lessons learned here in Africa, there should probably be a more profound point to all this shouldn't there? So as I sit here in Dar Es Salaam airport waiting for my flight home, here are some of my lessons learned:

Lesson one: Things move "pole pole" in Africa

Pole pole (pronounced poe-lay poe-lay) is Kiswahili for slowly slowly, or bit by bit. I think for many East Africans this typifies life here. Everything is slow, from the bus leaving four hours later than you expect because it wasn't quite full to a meeting arranged for 8am that eventually begins at 1 in the afternoon without a flicker of an apology.

Like most elements of East African life there are both down and up sides to this. When I was in Uganda, teenage boys looking for work would walk for two hours from the local town to use the centre's printers for their CVs and applications, only to find that the printer had no ink. Or paper. Or the power was out. Or someone had lost the key to the computer room. So they would turn around, their whole day wasted effectively and return the next day. This is just one example of thousands where time is wasted and talent is not properly developed.

On a country level it means that there are huge inefficiencies in the way developing countries operate. Consider the capital city of any European country having no power or water three days. There would be riots! Yet here this is relatively normal, meaning again things take so much longer to get done and businesses suffer.

At an individual and family level there are some upsides though for the pole pole approach to life. Parents have more time to spend with their children, friends have longer with each other, and everyone has more time to think. In Zanzibar they serve spiced coffee and ginger tea by the corners of the roads in Stone Town. Every night men gather on these corners, many of whom sit on the curbs smoking and looking into the middle distance.

I join them and realise that taking time out of your day to really think about your life, what you experienced that day, whether you are happy or not, and other big questions like what you should do is very powerful. Each African that I spoke to had a different philosophy about life which is certainly a good thing, and probably at least partly due to the time they have to spend thinking.

Lesson two: Corruption is killing this region

In Kenya I watched a policeman stopping cars and motorbike taxis on a bridge between the mainland and the island I was living on. In broad daylight, from each vehicle he would draw between 50 and 100 shillings from the driver - the equivalent of about 50p. Essentially this is legitimised robbery, for which the drivers have no recourse.

Also in Kenya I meet Evans, an intelligent guy around 20 years old who had been head boy at his high school. As well as an outstanding academic record, Evans was also a champion sprinter, and practiced boxing, kick boxing and karate. His dream was to be in the army, and frankly any army in the world would be lucky to have a soldier like him. In the UK, we would bite his hand off for a signature to join, yet in Kenya the official in charge of selection requires a bribe of over $1,000 for an applicant to be successful.

With the country now at war in Southern Somalia, this means that the army does not have the best possible soldiers, and risks unnecessary casualties because the selection policy is based on who has money to bribe rather than merit.

At government level a review of the civil service found that 2,500 employees were not just under qualified, bit completely unqualified to do their jobs. Again, this is because of bribery and nepotism.

Widespread fraud and theft hinder development. The Kenyan government recently had to refund aid money to DfID, UNICEF, USAID and other grant making organisations following a scandal where millions of dollars worth of aid money meant for education was stolen by the same department responsible for administering it.

The story is a tale across the region, and is the rust ruining the government machine. At a country level, this means that development and progress is hindered because a country will not make the best use of its people's talents and thwarting attempts to support development.

The answer to this is support organisations at grass root level to tackle corruption and demand that government and personnel act ethically and responsibly. Additionally a free and independent media is crucial to act as a check and balance against theft from the country's people, and we should be supporting organisations who help maintain freedom of speech.

Lesson three: Different attitudes to life and death

In my first week in Uganda Witness, a four year old girl studying at the local school, died whilst crossing a busy road in torrential rain.

At the time I was struck by the difference in reactions to this tragedy between Western volunteers and locals. Africans have a different perception of life, I think, because they surrounded by death all the time. With so many children falling from diseases like malaria, extremely high HIV/AIDs rates leaving vast numbers of orphans, low life expectancy and difficulties accessing healthcare in rural areas, is it any wonder that death simply becomes a normal part of life?

Of course this is desperately sad, in particular when deaths are so avoidable as in Witness's case and so many others like hers. When I met her mother, I would have done anything to bring her back, and that experience has spurred me to do what I can to support organisations which will prevent deaths like these in the future.

Funerals in East Africa tend to be big community affairs, more of a celebration than a mourning. In Kenya a highly regarded ambassador from the region died, and the funeral was the social event of the month for the entire island. In this way his life was celebrated in the best possible way, with several hundred people dancing.

This celebration of life is a big trend which I've seen here which I'll talk more about in lesson six.

Lesson four: Uncomfortable journeys are sometimes the best

Matatus (or dallah dallahs if you're in Tanzania) are shared taxis, the dominant transport form in East Africa. They are small minibuses with seats for about 12 people, and very cheap. Brightly decorated (mostly shouting support for a premier league team) they mostly have tupac blaring out of a massive sound system which is less than pleasant at 7am before you've even had a cup of coffee.

Although officially only able to accommodate 12 people, my record stands at 26 which included a man with two other men on his lap, several breast feeding women and a loose chicken.

On a journey from Ngorogor to Arusha in Tanzania, I crammed into a space which presumably the engineers at Toyota had envisaged being used as a cup holder. Squashed between the driver - a rotund woman who looked a bit like Missy Elliot and had a cool red cap - and a woman with her baby on her lap, we hurtled through the open plains as the sun set behind us painting the rolling hills, base of the mountains and road ahead of us in a stunning purple. It's one of the most spectacular landscapes I've ever seen.

I think what made this scene so beautiful was that you had to struggle through it.  Looking back on it, when I arrived at Arusha it wasn't the pain and discomfort of sitting like a contortionist for four hours that I remember, but the incredible scenery seen in the ways that locals see it every day.

Lesson five: A positive vision of East Africa

War, famine, disease, hunger - these are what the Western media portrays Africa as. A desperate place with no hope, and in serious need of support without which the entire continent would collapse.

As a fundraiser I have contributed to these stereotypes in my own work. Unfortunately responses are better to have a shocking image of a baby with flies all over his face than to have a positive image of a child receiving her school diploma.

There is a very different side of Africa though which rarely gets airplay at home. Bright, passionate, highly educated Africans with ideas and enterprise. I meet journalists, academics, entrepreneurs, doctors, artists, musicians all of whom are exceptionally talented. They talk passionately about their ideas for the future, and how frustrating it can be to work through layers of bureaucracy and corruption.

The challenge for so many African countries is how to encourage their talent to stay, with limited opportunities compared to American and Europe, it is these people who will take the development of their countries to the next level, not NGOs or foreign governments and their aid money.

In Kenya I meet a local government official who shares this view, and is beginning to seek funding for centres of excellence to be set up throughout the region. Organisations like his should provide the fuel to fire growth and progress in countries throughout Africa.

Lesson six: Living in the present

Poverty, lack of jobs, poor education, disease and corruption all restrict the choices that Africans have to make changes to the way they live. Life can be extremely hard and surrounded by tragedy. Funerals become normal and there is an acceptance that life is short.

For many, like the motorbike taxi drivers living from fare to fare, or the fishermen who struggle every day to bring in enough catch to provide food for their families,  it is very difficult to plan for the future.

Whilst I wish that more Africans would save and plan, in particular rather than drinking local beer which is a huge problem across all of the countries I visited, their is some wisdom in living in the present.

All of the people that I met, every single one recognised what was good about his or her life, and to appreciate what they have and who they have in their lives. The genuine joy that comes with infectious laughter, or their desire to dance at any opportunity was amazing to be around.

To live in the present means not to either yearn for the past, or obsess with a particular future. To enjoy the pure moments around us all the time, that don't cost a lot of money, and that are common to all of us, wherever we come from.

This is the single most important lesson for me. To not only see what has always been in front of me, but to actively seek out more genuine experiences from my life because I can. Because I am blessed with that choice.

If something in your life is making you unhappy, then you have the power to change it. If you have always had the urge to achieve something, or try something new, then do it. If you are presented with a safe choice and something new, then choose something new - this is what life is. Our collective experiences. In the main we are blessed with choices in the West, we just need to think and question ourselves to realise what they are.

A simple piece of research into what people perceived the meaning of life found that life was essentially two things. The things you did and the people you met. That's it. So enjoy both, now, in the present rather than wishing we were somewhere else or worrying about what other people might think or say.

I have had the pleasure of meeting some amazing people over the last three months, they have taught me so much about the simple but essential truths in life. They have helped me rediscover something that was lost in me, a curiosity about people and how they live and a thirst to discover and understand and to help. 

There are huge problems in this region and I fully plan to come back here soon to work in the field, and to continue with some of the work I've started. I am back in the UK for four to six months, before I plan to leave the UK permanently.

Thanks for reading. Hopefully you haven't choked on all the clichés. 

Identity

"The value of identity of course is that so often with it comes purpose."

Richard R Grant

And so to Zanzibar. This is the final leg of my journey, and for some reason I feel like I've 'made it' although really this has been some of the easiest travelling I've ever done. I'm not going to wax lyrical about the 'tranquil turquoise sea' or 'stunning beaches' as a. it's probably raining in the UK so you don't want to hear about it and b. you can read about all that in a Sandals catalogue, I expect, should you so wish.

I'm at the bar one night and I get talking to a guy called Ahmed who has the glazed look of a typical Zanzibari. Whether that's a natural state of relaxation from life on a beach or self administered by local rastas is undeterminable. Our conversation jaunts from his excellent theory of 'good lazy' and 'bad lazy', existence and consciousness, free will and destiny, the ills of religion, the American civil rights movement through to what it means to be Zanzibari.

He tells me about a trip he took to Europe where he met some English men who asked him where he was from. He replied 'Zanzibar', to which my learned countrymen said they had no idea where it was. He explained that Zanzibar is an island, part of Tanzania to which the English chime 'Oh Tanzania! We know Tanzania!". This made him furious, and he also complained of having a Tanzanian passport rather than a Zanzibari one to produce to customs when he travels. "They have no idea where I'm from unless they check the place of issue, but who does that?" he bemoaned.

This gets me thinking about identity, both in terms of how we define ourselves and how others define us. When meeting anyone new we tend to ask similar questions to understand and define that person. How old are you? Where do you come from? What do you do? Do you have a family? And so on. These assets form a picture in our mind of who we are talking to, and help us empathise and understand them at a basic level which then shapes how our relationship with them develops.

In this way I can understand Ahmed's irritation at being defined as a Tanzanian rather than a Zanzibari by fellow travellers, customs officials or indeed people on the mainland of Tanzania. There is a problem with defining people in this way as it does not take into account their collective history, their culture or their beliefs and values.

So I set off to Stone Town, the main city of Zanzibar, to find out what real Zanzibari life is like, and how this differs from those on the mainland. The Old Town, a world heritage site,  is a maze of Arabian architecture with bustling streets that tumble in and out of each other. Traders shout from their shops selling spices, kangas and traditional paintings as children scramble after chickens which have escaped from their coops. Men sit on corners drinking the local spiced tea as women in brightly coloured shawls sell mandazis from small stools on their front porches.

The ornately carved wooden doors which open out onto the winding streets are one of Zanzibar's most noticeable facets. Coach loads of tourists stare fascinated at them, taking an endless stream of abstract photographs. It occurs to me that although beautiful, what lies behind the doors are more interesting. They are a threshold to local life here, not necessarily representative of it in their own right.

I arrange a fixer, Saleem, to take me to meet people behind the doors to get an insight into what life is really like here. What people feel and believe, and to try and better understand their identity so that I might do the same.

At our first encounter I meet Sabah who is a mother of two. She lives behind a beautifully grand doorway which leads the way to a series of modest flats where three families live. Her husband is a street vendor, and she says that life is hard here and they struggle to get by.

She talks softly but intensely about the high unemployment on the island, and how inflation is making her life as a housewife more and more difficult as her basics like food continue to rise in price.

She tells me that her family has lived here as longer than anyone can remember, and she considers herself a true Zanzibari. I ask her about how she feels about the vote currently in parliament to make Zanzibar independence, and she talks passionately about her desire for free will, without control from Dar Es Salaam, and I'm struck with how much this seems like a struggle for identity rather than a matter of administration.

We move on to a local restaurant, Barwan (the name of an old Arabic tribe), where I meet James who is 18. His family has lived here for many generations, and like Sabah he does not know when they first settled here.

James is a waiter here, and between serving hungry locals who scoff Indian snacks like Bagia and chappatis he tells me about being a Zanzibari. He says that life is not good on the island, and too many of his friends from school are on the streets without work every day.

He also talks passionately about independence from Tanzania. "They are consuming us" he shouts over the restaurant's noisy din, and gesticulates wildly as he carves his point into the air with his index finger. "They are bigger and take advantage of us".

I'm struck by how his distinction between Tanzanians and Zanzibaris. Even as a young person who has never known anything but a united Tanzania and Zanzibar, he still sees his identity as strongly different to that of the mainland.

The sun baking overhead now, we shuffle along the shade of the old town to meet Moza who is 24 with two children. Her hands beautifully decorated with henna to show that she is married, she tells me her husband is a teacher at the local school. She lives in a humble apartment with an imposing grey door which reminds me of a jailer's gate. Not beautiful so much as curious.

She tells me about her fears for her children. To give them the best education, she and her husband pay for private schooling, and she says that her life is "50:50". Half the time they have enough money, but when her business selling fried snacks to local restaurants and passers by is slow they find it difficult to pay their children's school fees.

She shares her hopes for her children. How she wishes them to receive the best possible education and make a bright future for themselves in Zanzibar. Unlike the others I speak to, she believes Zanzibar is better off under a united Tanzania rather than to live under independent rule.

I think that for Moza her and her family's identity is much more about what you make of yourself, rather than where you have come from. Both her and her husband have been successful, and they are proud.

Finally we arrive at the home of Isa Hameed, who is the owner of a business producing pink sweets made from Bao Bab seeds.

Upstairs I meet his daughters who mix the seeds with sugar, spices and a red dye to give them their appealing colour.

Gathering around me, they tell me that they are proud to be Zanzibari, that the island has a tradition of respect for different cultures because of its rich history and influences from Arabic, Indian and European settlers.

They too want independence from Tanzania, not because they believe like James that they are being taken from financially, but that the influence of the mainland is destroying their own way of life.

Describing themselves as devout Muslims, they complain about those from the mainland and from overseas not dressing more conservatively. They say they want an Islamic moralist society which is more in keeping with Zanzibar's roots, and the history of the island.

Thanking Saleem for allowing me into these people's homes, my mind scrambles to try and make sense of what I've experienced.

Clearly many locals in Zanzibar see themselves as a distinct nation, one that is suppressed both from its economic potential and cultural heritage by the present union with Tanzania.

I think that their various struggles define them as much as their history, faith or communities. Whether that be to make ends meet, to find hope for a new generation, to educate their children or to maintain their culture and religious beliefs, all of them were passionate about something.

And maybe this is the point. That we are not necessarily defined by our past, by the work we do or the family we have, but by where we struggle to get to. What our beliefs are, our values, and how hard we are prepared to push for them.

For me its helped me understand that my beliefs, my faith in people and humanity define me. That social justice is crucial above all, and that rights be upheld. That this is who I am, rather than what labels can be associated with me. Of course what we do give clues to our identity, but if you want to truly understand someone, perhaps you have to understand what they are struggling for.