Welcome to Kabira - Kenya's largest slum

Walking toward the entrance of the slum the stares from the locals become more and more obvious. "Muzingo, muzingo!" people shout while pointing at me. I've been in Nairobi for four weeks -- long enough to know that 'Muzingo' means white person in Swahili. And for a moment, I have a feeling of what it's like for the locals when tourists come to the slum and stare and point at them.

Thomas is a security guard at the local children's home and he is heading to work in just a few hours. Before that, he has agreed to show me his home, Kabira Slum. But this is not only Thomas' home, it's also home to about 1 million others.

I've taken off my watch and my jewelry, left my purse and mobile phone at the apartment, and put on my dirtiest pair of trainers. This is what I'm told to do - apparently you don't want to tempt someone who has nothing, to steal something.

Thomas is lovely, softly spoken and unassuming. He loves it when I ask him questions about his family, his life and his hopes for the future. Together we go through the entrance, past the offices of the United Nations agency for human settlements UN-HABITAT and into the slum. It has everything you would assume a slum might have: Shacks, mud, slush, urine, faeces, animal carcasses, and lots of little trinkets and odd things that people sell.

We're walking through the slum following the train tracks. Apparently the train runs through here early in the morning and late in the evening, so it's okay to walk along the lines, for now.

The slum is divided into sections or neighbourhoods. The first is called High Rise. The homes in this 'neighbourhood' are relatively cheap to rent and are made of tarpaulin sheeting with thin beams holding together the structure. Less shelter than if you had a two-man tent on a camping trip.

Further into slum is the business district, Raini Saba; here you'll find many little businesses, anything from shops and cafes to hair salons and 'movie cinemas.' The cinema is simply a little shack with a television inside it playing various DVD's, which mostly consists of old or local movies. You simply pay the vendor who operates the DVD player draw the curtain and watch the movie. Going to this 'cinema' is a luxury. Every now and then kids peek their heads around the curtain trying to catch a glimpse of the movie. It's universal - children love television!

Photo credit: Dominque Van Heerden

The locals are not nearly as intimidating as I was told they might be. In fact, they're all smiles - happy, friendly and open. The children make me smile. They come out from their hiding places and slowly start following me in little groups: "howareyou?, howareyou?, howareyou?" they in chorus. The entire time I walk through Kabira the children chant the same thing to me. I think it's the only thing they can say in English. I turn around quickly, smile back and say, "I'm fine, and how are you?" to which they're stumped for an answer, perhaps not expecting me to be paying attention to them.

Mind the 'flying toilets'

The third area of the slum is Mashimoni, this 'neighbourhood' is better than the ones I've seen. The homes are made of tin and there's sheeting on the ground to keep out the cold, well, as much as possible. None of the homes in this area, or in the whole of Kabira, have toilets. People have to pay to use public toilets that not everyone can afford. Thomas explained the consequences, "...when people can't pay for the toilet, they go to the toilet in a plastic bag, when they're finished, they tie the bag and throw it out their shack, it lands anywhere. For this reason, you must watch out for 'flying toilets'.

Thomas excitedly tells me that we're almost at his house. He's clearly proud that he lives in the 'up-market' area of the slum - Lindi. The houses here are built of brick and mud, and even have front doors with locks. They are much sturdier than the ones in the other areas. Thomas invites me inside his home, and he's clearly made an effort to turn the little space he has into a welcoming one. He has a bed, two chairs, a mini gas stove, one radio, a little table, a small set of drawers, and a line hanging above his bed to dry his clothes.

Thomas' family live outside Nairobi because he says the city is too expensive to raise a family in. So instead he works here and sends the money he earns back to his wife and kids. His story is a common one here but he is delighted that he even has the opportunity to support them.

After spending some time in Thomas' home, we head back out, and head towards the last area - Sivanga. It's similar to Mashimoni in that the houses are a little better than the ones in High Rise and Raini Saba, but still not as nice as Lindi. Walking towards Sivanga we pass two schools and a football field. The schools are run by charities, the one is a girls-only school and the other one is mixed. "The children here love school, they are very happy to learn," Thomas says. I can see what he means; it's Saturday, and the kids are waiting excitedly for Monday to come.

One thing in particular has struck me during my personalised 'tour' through the slum... Despite the shocking post-election violence at the beginning of 2008 everyone here seems, for now, to be living peacefully. There are a few Churches and Mosques in the slum, maybe an indication that people seem to be accepting of each other, perhaps united in their everyday struggles.

I've seen poverty before, after all, South Africa is home to Soweto, the biggest slum in Africa. But there is never a familiarity to seeing human suffering. It's different everywhere, and every person's face tells a different story.

We walk back out the slum, past the UNHABITAT offices again and out onto the street. Thomas remarks that he's pleased we've made it out the slum without any problems. We cross over the road and say our goodbyes. I head home and walk through the guarded gates of my apartment block. It's almost as if I was never there.