There are no fences around Kakuma camp, but the borders are not porous. Refugees are kept in, researchers mostly kept out--save for a small handful who are commissioned by the UNHCR or one of its implementing partners, or who through luck and perseverance figure out how to navigate the system. I'm of the later, staying with the Lutheran World Federation (the UNHCR's main implementing partner for education); but I'm not here "with" the LWF.
Just over one week ago, I arrived by plane to Lodwar, an outpost town of approximately 4000 (predominately Turkanas). These indigenous peoples look similar in dress and appearance to the more widely known Massai, but do not inspire the same awe amongst tourists (perhaps because so few ever come to this barren, desert region where it rains only 15 days per year).
Lodwar is 120 kilometers from Kakuma and I was advised (by the journalists and scholars mentioned in a previous post), that I could either arrange for a cab or see if I could catch a ride with one of the NGO's I would find waiting outside the landing strip (row after row of shiny SUV's with alphabet soup logos fixed prominently on the driver and passenger doors--WFP, CARE, JRS, LWF, NCCK...)
I managed to get a seat in LWF's truck and pondered how I might manage to stay in their compound as we raced off-road towards Kakuma. We were off road (on the dirt track next to the road) because even the SUV couldn't tackle the cracked and potholed Tarmac, and racing because bandits have been known to target the NGO caravans that regularly pass through. I was pondering because if I didn't get into the compound, I would be staying outside the camp in Kakuma town at one of the two guesthouses (close in distance but far removed from access to refugees and implementing partner staff).
As we approached Kakuma, alphabet soup signs welcomed those who entered. My favorite was the IRC's: WELCOME TO KAKUMA. PLEASE LEAVE THE CAMP BETTER THAN YOU FOUND IT. Behind the sign, goats foraged amongst a pile of trash and a dirt devil (mini tornado) stirred--sending empty water bottles and wrappers flying.
We pulled into the compound and I was directed to the main office. After showing my letter of permission from the DRA and making apologies for arriving unannounced, I managed to get a room in their guesthouse (awestruck after I was deposited there with my bags that transportation and accommodation worked out seamlessly).
So I was "in" and since then have captured story after story of those who desperately want to get out. Despite their education, their livelihoods in a booming informal economy, their connections via Internet and phone to family and friends in far away places, all have said this place is a prison and they are not free.
Just over one week ago, I arrived by plane to Lodwar, an outpost town of approximately 4000 (predominately Turkanas). These indigenous peoples look similar in dress and appearance to the more widely known Massai, but do not inspire the same awe amongst tourists (perhaps because so few ever come to this barren, desert region where it rains only 15 days per year).
Lodwar is 120 kilometers from Kakuma and I was advised (by the journalists and scholars mentioned in a previous post), that I could either arrange for a cab or see if I could catch a ride with one of the NGO's I would find waiting outside the landing strip (row after row of shiny SUV's with alphabet soup logos fixed prominently on the driver and passenger doors--WFP, CARE, JRS, LWF, NCCK...)
I managed to get a seat in LWF's truck and pondered how I might manage to stay in their compound as we raced off-road towards Kakuma. We were off road (on the dirt track next to the road) because even the SUV couldn't tackle the cracked and potholed Tarmac, and racing because bandits have been known to target the NGO caravans that regularly pass through. I was pondering because if I didn't get into the compound, I would be staying outside the camp in Kakuma town at one of the two guesthouses (close in distance but far removed from access to refugees and implementing partner staff).
As we approached Kakuma, alphabet soup signs welcomed those who entered. My favorite was the IRC's: WELCOME TO KAKUMA. PLEASE LEAVE THE CAMP BETTER THAN YOU FOUND IT. Behind the sign, goats foraged amongst a pile of trash and a dirt devil (mini tornado) stirred--sending empty water bottles and wrappers flying.
We pulled into the compound and I was directed to the main office. After showing my letter of permission from the DRA and making apologies for arriving unannounced, I managed to get a room in their guesthouse (awestruck after I was deposited there with my bags that transportation and accommodation worked out seamlessly).
So I was "in" and since then have captured story after story of those who desperately want to get out. Despite their education, their livelihoods in a booming informal economy, their connections via Internet and phone to family and friends in far away places, all have said this place is a prison and they are not free.
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