Day 20: Bad at math

No more posts till home…

Tomorrow at 3:00, I board a plane bound for Nairobi. Then another for Amsterdam. And the final points to home. It is over 24 hours in the air with a generous sampling of three hour layovers. I write this post waking from a four hour nap after another bout of intestinal disress. (I suspect the Indian food) Today was church in a non-slum/non-rich/non-middle/upper class urban African Church, lunch, and a coma. Tonight I attend to another Church party with lots of Indian food and forced eating that makes a buffet into a food challenge where losing is not an option. (And I thought Italian mothers were bossy about telling you eat more.)

My trip was 21 days. But my journal only has 15 days. I guess I really am bad at math, but I know where they went. I spent yesterday at a Hindu wedding in a Hindu Temple. I didn’t know the bride or groom and can’t tell you much about the two and half hour ceremony as my seat had a delightful view of a rose flower arrangement and little else. Lunch was immediately following and I condemn as the source of my latest discomfort.  There were days I spent sick. But also there were a couple of days we visited families here in Mombassa. Those visits were personal moments and in honor to the friends we visited, I declined to share them publicly. But this gives me an opportunity to tell you some more about Carol.

Mombassa isn’t an African city like Niarobi. It is a unique blend of cultures. Muslim, Indian, and African. Carol’s mission is to work with the Asian groups. (When you say Asian in Africa, don’t think far east. Asian=anyone from the continent of Asia including India and middle east) So most of my days with her were personal visits with individuals who needed visiting. Those who were hurting, lonely, or down. Which is a lot like my life in America. I’m not very good at it. Sadly, I was equally inept other continents as my own. But problems abound all over the world. Both cosmic, financial, addictive, relational, abusive, and every other category. Only the details are different. I don’t know if that made me feel better or worse, but did make me feel like I know why I believe. We are all just too messed up to fix this alone.

So tomorrow I fly back to warm showers, free refills, clean toilets, buying in bulk, giant portions, clean streets, convenient online everything, and my loving family.

See you soon. Thanks for coming along.

p.s. If my plane crashes, please give this to Q or Aunt Shakespeare to edit up so it sounds more profound and worthy as a last writing. Thanks.

Day 15: Errands and Eels

Today started slow. Carol asked me to come with her to do errands. She said, “If you want to know what mission life is like, let me show you some of the boring stuff.” We went to the bank and electric company to pay bills. This small trip clarified an unspoken difference of Africa and America. In America, everything is convenient. Pay bills online, by check, autodraft, by phone, or by telepathy. In Africa, nothing is “convenient.” It isn’t even a goal. At the Barclay’s bank you wait in line. (Think amusement park style). There aren’t enough tellers and you have to wait too long. At the electric company, there were seven teller windows like a bank or racetrack betting office, and the lines were twenty people deep. You pay your bill in cash. And you wait in line every month. Now this sounds awful, but the point isn’t to make it convenient. Americans think that should be the point, but in Africa, relationship is the point. 

You see the same teller. You greet him. You connect with him. Nothing is easy. It isn’t supposed to be. If things were easy, you could do everything yourself. You would have no need to connect with a person. In Africa, EVERYTHING is who you know. You want to call the US, you talk to the guy who works at the phone card store. No it’s not easy. You can’t just buy the card and follow the instructions. He has to explain to you what are the new rule that contradict the printing on the scratch card. This isn’t bad or broken. It’s relationships. Remember the hardware store I mentioned? Now I know why they had a counter and no browsing aisles: relationship. You need the person to get you the part. If you could get the part yourself you wouldn’t need the person. There’s no relationship there. When I say relationships, I’m not talking penpals or best friends. It is simply human connection. 

We ran a couple of errands and I learned about Africa. Then I went to the beach of the Indian Ocean.

Supposedly, Mombassa has great snorkeling. There is a giant reef that protects the beach from big waves. Well, reef = cool fish/sealife so at low tide you go to the reef and see the pretty fishies. Carol took me to a ritzy hotel so I could hook up with there water sports tour and go out. I arrived thirty minutes late. Low tide had passed and my only chance was tomorrow’s cruise at 2:00 pm. Drat. Then Carol says, “Let’s go hire someone on the beach to take you.”

And like prophecy, meet Tobias. He looks like a total African beach bum. Skinny with a rasta knit hat, baggy shorts, billowing sun-bleached blue shirt. Carol and Tobias negotiate a price to take me to the reef. We settle and Carol makes arrangements to pick me up in three hours. She goes back to the car, I follow Tobias to down the beach.

We walk for several hundred yards down the beach and pass at least two hotels. He asks, “you have the money?” I pay him and watch him count the bills in my clip. Drat. Well, my only chance is relationship.

“So where’s your boat?” I ask looking at the beach craft.

“Right der.” He points.

Oh. No it isn’t.

 

Stop right here:
I need you to SEE this. A giant white beach with teal water lapping the sand, and deep blue stretching out past the reef and far on the horizon giant waves whisper on the wind. And there is his boat. You know the boat. It’s the one Tom Hanks used to escape the Island on “Castaway.” 

“Dis is an African sail boat.” Tobias said as he summoned two other Africans who seemed unwilling or unable to speak english. They spoke about my wallet for several minutes while they readied the boat. And then I start thinking. “Great. They are going to kill me for 1000 shillings ($18) and dump me in the ocean.” I went with them. I don’t know why, but I did. You know all those self-defense testimonials where they say they had a bad feeling, etc. I had a bad feeling, but I really wanted to go snorkeling. Soon we sailed out onto the water. And my bad feeling got worse. The only way to survive, relationship.

“So what kind of wood is the boat made of?” I asked.

“Mango. Some tribes when a mango tree stops making fruit make charcoal. My tribe; they make a boat.” New African guy bragged. “Even if it is filled with water, it still floats. Due to the out riggers (pontoon looking side things)”

“That’s amazing.” I said. But I wasn’t worried about the boat. 

Actually, the sailing was really pleasant and just when I was digging it we hit the reef. My eyes got big and the bragging guy said, “sokay. It’s da reef. You get out here.” He pointed… “look.” And there on the middle of the ocean is a guy walking on the water. “Get out.”

I got out and stood on solid coral.  It was surreal. We had sailed over deep blue water to the reef, but the reef is so huge that at low tide you walk on the water. Tobias grabbed my bag and hopped out with me. The waves were crashing a couple hundred hards out and we had acres and acres of walking room. The boat pulled away and waved as we stood on the ocean with water up to our ankles.

Tobias and I walked for ten minutes and caught up to the guy we saw walking. He was hunting octopus who hid in the tiny caves of the tide pools. I could have bought one of the two foot long octopus he had skewered for a $1.50. I chose to pass while watching the tentacles writhe in slow motion. (I’m never eating that. Ever)

Eventually I saw a turquoise circle on the horizon and Tobias said go in here. So I donned mask and snorkel and descended into the lagoon. It felt great to submerge in water. I haven’t had a warm shower in over two weeks and of those most are cold water sailor showers. (Spray, turn off water, soap up, spray rinse and shiver) I saw lots of fish, urchins, anemones, clown fish, green fish, yellow and black, black and white, and a few random rainbow ones. I was so immersed in how cool it was to be snorkeling in the Indian Ocean I didn’t notice the giant eel that charged me. Okay. I’ll tell the truth. I wasn’t paying attention because I was pretending to be Darth Vader. (Underwater a snorkel sounds like Vader. I’m not weird. Lots of people have thought it. I’m just open to admit it) But while I was contemplating the dark side of the force and all of the spiritual ramifications a huge eel was coming right at me. Now he wasn’t shrieking eel sized, but if you make your hand as big as if you were holding a thick cheeseburger; that’s how big around he was. And I hacked him off something fierce. Possibly he was a Jedi eel? Regardless, I panicked and kicked my Teva sandals trying to escape. Obviously, my power was greater because he turned to leave, but my heart was thumping.

Then I remembered that I was alone on a coral reef with an unknown man. I popped up and saw Tobias standing like a picture. Dark skin against blue sky with his shirt flapping around him. “I’m cool,” I thought and plunged in again. Later I moved to another larger area, I saw more and cooler things (no charging eels) but less concentrated.  I could feel the tide coming back in and knew it was time to go. I emerged. Tobias and I walked the reef to meet the boat. 

Overall, the snorkeling wasn’t that great. I was told it was amazing. So I asked.

“So. If I took the hotel tour, is this where they would have taken me?” I asked.

“No. They go way out der to the coral reef.” Tobias confessed.

“Why didn’t we go out there?” I asked

“No time now the tides coming back.” He lied. “You had a good time no?” 

“Yeah. Well thanks any way. I enjoyed it.” I said.

So another mzungu gets conned, but at least I didn’t get killed. On the boat ride home the sailors wanted to talk about Obama. I smiled the whole way with sun on my face and salt on my skin.

 

Just to be clear: I showered as soon as I got home.

Day 14: Safari

Day 14: Safari

So I’m still feeling icky. But come on people…I don’t have malaria.

I have very limited energy and feel very weak. I lost my voice and sound like a coughing bullfrog. But no one here knows what my real voice sounds like so they just think I’m the pale Texas version of James Earl Jones.

We planned a day to safari and since safari is a lot of sitting and all I’m really good at lately is sitting, today was as good as any. Now before we start I have to correct your mental imagery. When I say “safari” you think me dressed in a pith helmet, wearing 4 different shades of khaki, sporting a vest with lots of pockets. Stop right there. Going on Safari when you know locals is like going to Six Flags. You pack a lunch and Carol drives you two hours to the gate in a borrowed Isuzu 4×4. I know. I know it isn’t as glamorous, but it is just as, if not more fun. I wore sunglasses, a black polo and adventure pants. (The pants had lots of pockets and needed to be washed badly, so that was kind of authentic.)

The place is called Tsavo East (not to be confused with Tsavo West on the other side of the freeway). Remember when I told you that I got to see the animals on the bus ride? The highway bisects the two Wildlife Preserves. These places are HUGE and cover hundreds of square miles. We pulled into the gate and it was very ordinary. It cost $40 US dollars to get in. I was slightly underwhelmed, but I was very happy to have a bathroom. In Africa, you get to play the “how long can you hold it game” at least once per day. This particular toilet had more mosquitos than I have seen in my entire African experience. And after the abundance of morning coffee and two hour commute, I was willing to brave Dagoba swamp for relief.

So after the mosquito swarm, we mounted our Isuzu Trooper and began the theme song of safari: Low gear. In the car with me are Carol, the driver, Malcolm, and his son, Colin. Colin and Carol are birdwatchers and are picking out birds right and left. “Yellow breasted this, non-mating that, …smallest bird of prey in Kenya” It was dizzying. After ten minutes of driving, all you could see in every direction is grass, trees, and the orange dirt road. Then it happenned.

“Warthog 9:00”

This isn’t a HALO post. See the way you do safari is you have to call what you see and where so the driver can stop and everyone can see. I was looking 9:00 and didn’t see anything, but then Pumba walked out from behind the bush. Outside my window was a warthog. I’m so into this.

Do you remember the scene in Jurassic Park when the paleontologist drives out over the the plain and it is filled with dinosaurs. Picture that, but with elephants, zebra, and giraffe. A-mazing. And when you cut the ignition the silence is profound. It is like you are the only people left in the world. No world noise at all. Just wind, bird wings, bugs, and animal steps or calls. 

Here is a list of all the animals I saw:
Elephant, zebra, giraffe, baboon, monkeys, monitor lizard, 10 other kinds of lizards, warthog, oryx, water buffalo lookin things, more kinds of deer/antelope/gazelle than I could discern (the coolest was the size of a small dog), jackal, ostrich, and I can’t count the birds, but they were like tropical fish in color. Indescribable. Sadly, we saw no big cats (lion, panther, cheetah)

I took over 200 pictures. The place was huge. I thought Montana was big, this was big like that, but AFRICA big.

We ate peanut butter and jelly for lunch at the camp site. (Yes you can camp there.) This was where I realized this wasn’t a Disney safari. Baboons came. We got back into the car and a baboon sat outside my window watching me eat. He yawned at me. They have big teeth. Dracula with caps big. Fangs. He wanted to kill me for that sandwich. This wasn’t Magic Kingdom Africa. This was Africa Africa. There are no fences here. There are no walls. 

Later when the elephant charged the car, this was Africa. When it charged the car again. This was Africa. When we had to wait thirty minutes in a stand off with a HUGE elephant. When he flapped his ears, snorted and shook his head…Africa. 

I was not feeling great, but I just had to sit so it wasn’t bad. We drove back to Mombassa after dark and stopped for dinner at a BBQ/italian/chinese restaurant. I ate kabobs and bread again. It was a supercool day. I went sleep hard.

BTW:
Driving on the Savannah for eight hours clears your sinus’s better than sudafed.

Day 11-13: Cats and Monkeys?

I got sick yesterday. I’m fighting a flu thing sort of.

I’m really tired and loopy. I slept 12 hours last night.

Here are some quick hits:

-They have monkeys instead of squirrels.

-Carol owns three cats, but they don’t quarrel with the monkeys.

-Chickens also roam around the parking lot. I don’t know if they quarrel or not.

-The monkeys live in a three story mango tree growing in the parking lot outside the flat.

-I stepped in monkey poo.

-I went to a village an hour north of Mombassa to where Malcolm and his family used to live for 10 years. Bush, people, the bush.

-I road a ferry over the Indian Ocean.

I need to go back to bed.

DAY 9-10: The Going and the Bumping

I packed the day before I left for Mombassa and rushed around making final good-byes and arrangements for closing accounts and travel. The coolest thing happened, some of the people in the restaurant were really sad I was leaving. Not the “I’m-in-customer-service” sad, but genuine. I had no idea my time with them would be so influential. On my last night, I was asked out to dinner by Michael (the restaurant guy). I had to decline because I accepted an invitation from Peter (eat-gizzard-with-your-hands dinner guy). I thought it was going to be a 1-2 hour party…wrong. Three hours and they still hadn’t gotten out the food. Before the night was over I had disappointed two new friends and stepped on an undisclosed amount of social mistakes. Disappointing people in Africa feels even worse than America

The next morning I woke up crazy early to drive two hours to catch the bus to Mombassa. We got there an hour early and camped out waiting for my new traveling companions. Meet Malcolm and Colin. Malcolm is a former missionary to a tribal people north of Mombassa. He now teaches at Phoenix Seminary one semester and travels the rest of the year to other locations to teach. For casting purposes picture me riding around with Gene Hackman. Colin is his adult son. We boarded the bus in Nairobi. It was a crazy downtown scene. People everywhere with crowded streets that smelled like sweat, diesel, and curry. I have no idea how a giant bus (think greyhound size without a toilet) escaped from those clogged streets, but we did. I think those drivers are as sharp as jet fighter pilots.

The drive was not easy. The bus had comfortable seats, but the roads made Louisiana look like a driver’s paradise. Calling it bumpy would be like calling a Ultimate Fighting Match as competitive. Picture sitting in one of those massage machine chairs, but instead  of massage, think punching jolts from every axis. There was tons of dust as well. My fingernails were dirty and I didn’t touch anything. Nine hours. PLUS the driver was on the African version of speed. It is some kind of gum. So he was passing on a two lane road playing chicken with oncoming trucks. This is all magnified by the Indian techno, Rap and woefully pathetic western pop he blared over the bus loudspeakers. I swear there was an Indian country song in there and I don’t want to here Justin Timberlake while cruising the savannah.

That’s all of the bad parts. Now here’s the cool stuff. You know how when you’re driving in a rural area and get excited at seeing a deer on the side of the road? Yeah. I saw a rare antelope, a herd of zebras, AND a clump of elephants. ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. 

Did you know that zebras are orange in the wild?

Yeah, the dust gets on them. They look more like tiger horses. The elephants were orange too, but tiger horses looked cooler. The bus stopped three times for lunch and restroom breaks at the African equivalent of truckstops. I ordered a grape Fanta. I felt so local. I peeled off the right denomination of bill AND had a good idea of what it would cost. But the dude looked at me weird. But this didn’t discourage me…Until I was drinking it and read that they don’t have “grape.” The purple one is “Black Currant.” I’m such a tourist.

We arrived in Mombassa after dark, but Malcolm gave me cool commentary as we went.

At Mombassa, the other missionaries, Carol and Tim (not married to each other.) Carol is single and has been here since the mid-eighties. Tim was in Rwanda until the violence and came to Mombassasa after being chased out.) Recently, He left for the states to transition his kids into college and is back for the summer to put on a Pastor’s conference. In American, he runs a retail store that sells wood carvings and curios items imported from Africa.

They picked us up and took us out to dinner at an outdoor restaurant. You sit at a picnic table on the sidewalk and they have a big grill cooking skewers of meat. Four bite sized pieces: 3 meaty and 1 fatty. The fatty one is the local favorite. I palmed mine and threw them under the table. I ate goat cooked (I think. It’s best not to ask), dipped in various sauces with non (Indian flatbread). Mombassa is a weird city. It isn’t like Nairobi at all. Mombassa is 1/3 Indian, 1/3 Muslim, and 1/3 African. It’s a really exotic blend. Arabs and Indians settled and traded here long before the colonials came, so it is really unique. On the same street corner you will see a veiled muslim woman, a woman in a sari, and one in African/western clothes. Being such a white guy, all of the diversity is still hard to classify.

I’m staying in the flat Carol sublets to guests. It is a two bedroom that feels really homey. Good night all.

DAY 8: I’m closing tonight…

Today I went to visit friends of friends. 

I came to Nairobi with only one thing to do…Go visit Waldo and Lynette. Every other day has been filled with “yes, I’ll do that with you.” Waldo and Lynette are missionaries who are friends with former missionaries that I am friends with (McMillans, for you HCC people). So I called Waldo yesterday (he knew I was coming) and hijacked his whole day. I felt kind of bad, but he showed me where he works. And it was COOL. Waldo works with Africa Inland Missions. He fixes/installs airplane electronics and radios. (He says he works with paper, but I think he’s just trying to downplay how cool he is) Waldo works in a hanger with airplanes. Real airplanes that support missionaries all over this part of Africa. They take airplanes apart and put them back together again like a puzzle. I was trying so hard not to geek out on him, but it was so SUPER cool. He showed me everything. An engine being rebuilt, up under the dashboard where all of the equipment is wired. Did you know they have to replace EVERY wire and connection at scheduled intervals? That’s insane. There’s like thousands of wires.

We went to an aviation club for lunch that was really nice. It was like a British aviation museum/country club. Walking around you could just imagine the British WWII pilots telling war stories. There were pictures all over the walls of military aircraft and other planes. Again, I love aviation, but I was with pros and trying not to geek out is really hard. I had the same problem when I visited my friend Joey’s F-15 jet fighter base. I have amazing will power.

For lunch, the menu was totally western. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries and I am not going to apologize for it. It was wonderful. Ready for the irony? My stomach was just as unhappy about that as the Kibera psychodrama. I know…I’m a mess. The best part of lunch was hearing Waldo and Lynette’s story PLUS they had a friend visiting so I got to hear three missionary stories. The last being from the kid-growing-up-in-Africa perspective. I love cool stories.

I called for my taxi and waited outside the airport gate. The driver was delayed so I waited for 45 minutes, but this is Africa. You waste way too much energy getting frustrated. Here are some observations while I waited.

– In Kenya the Nissan Sentra car is called a Nissan “Sunny”
– Some dude stood on the other side of the street flashing me a 100 shilling note. Over and over again. I have no idea what that was all about. I have to ask about it tomorrow.

– Hey look a Lexus.

My evening was a blast.
A huge tour came from the US to stay here. Over fifty people. As I’ve mentioned, the owners and staff of the guesthouse and restaurant just bought this place a month ago. For several days, I was the only guest. But tonight they had to serve seventy folks, so I offered to help with the big barbecue Michael planned. So yeah, tonight I worked the night shift as a waiter/caterer guy.

The mission group flew for two days and spent the day with kids from the slums (not Kibera. There are three slums in Nairobi. Kibera is the largest) and are organizing a football (soccer) tournament thing. I don’t really know how all of it works, but if you are into titles and classifications, their program would be short-term sports evangelism mission. They were exhausted and HUNGRY from running with children all day.

Dinner was to be from 7-9. I reported for duty at 4:00.

I thought I would work the kitchen or something…nope. They put me in charge of serving and setup. (That’s what I get for saying I worked in a restaurant.) Thank you God for examples like Robert, Suzanne, and Kim for being so cool. I panicked when they put me in charge and then I thought… 

“How would Robert organize the line to feed 70 people?”
“Where would Suzanne put the meat vs. Veggies?”
“How would Kim lay out these desserts?”
So I just did what I thought they would do.

But 7:00 came and the grill wasn’t set up.

People were coming and they were not excited about waiting after a long day. Some hadn’t slept in three days. My line looked great. The tables looked great, but the food wasn’t ready. I had to buy the kitchen time. Then I had to do what I do…talk to large groups of people. And I talked hard. 

I bought the kitchen about ten minutes with Africa food anecdotes. I went back to the kitchen and told them to get the food out NOW! “I don’t care if we don’t have a grill yet. We need to serve.” It was a cool team moment. I was one with the restaurant. I was on the team. Mzungu on a staff of Africans. 

Neurotic sidebar:
The menu included grilled lamb. When I said, “we need the meat,” David, the cook, agreed and opened a huge oven door and pulled out the LAMB. It looked like they laid “Fluffy” on a giant cookie sheet and put her in till the hair burned off. I totally lost my appetite for the night.

Back to the barbecue:
So I walk outside and address the giant group. I give them all the rules of the line and then prayed. It was really fun, both serving and entertaining them. I had to repeat the process for dessert and coffee. It was a great night. I’ve often wondered if I could still do food service work. Yep, I can. Who knew Africa could teach you that?

After the exhausted soccer players went to bed, the staff thanked me graciously. It was really special. I welcomed them and hung out to close up. I moved tables and dried dishes. Over the drying table, I got Kikuyu language lessons from the accountant and housekeeper. If you add a “ge” sound to “thani” (plate) it means GIANT plate. This is really funny to Kikuyus. Just so you know, if you ever have to do tribal African stand-up comedy you have your first joke, “ge-thani.” It kills.

I smiled a lot today.

FYI: Tomorrow I leave for Mombassa by bus. I don’t know if I will have daily Internet access. I will write and entry for every day, but I have no idea how often I can post. (or chat. Sorry D).

DAY 7: The Market and my little friend…

I had to go buy souvenirs today. 

Which feels awkward after a day in Kibera, but in a weird way, it helps the city. I’m “supporting” the people who live in the slums, they are the merchants at market. At least that is what every vendor told me.

The Maasai Market.
This is one of the weekly open air flea market style operations in the city. Tuesday is the day to go if you want the most “authentic” experience. You know I’m nothing if not “authentic” so I blocked today off last week to go see the experience. I got the driver, Ignatius, I mentioned again. He is such a great guy. He will talk when I want to talk and allow silence when I’m trying to process what’s going on. He told me the story of the violence that rocked Kenya in the early months of the year. He said that the violence had stopped, but the tribal friction remained under a thin veneer of politics. It was weird to have a conversation about civil violence in the same city that seemed so calm today.

We parked downtown and went in search of the meter-maid. They wear bright yellow trench-coats. There are no meters. You park, go find the maid, buy a ticket with cash, return to your car, and display it on the dash. This isn’t like the lot system where the attendant is looking for you…you have to go FIND her. We walked two blocks. I love this part. I look into the windows of the shops and see how they organized and sell products. My favorite is hardware stores. Don’t think Home Depot. Check this out: You walk into a store. There is a small waiting area and a counter with five or six clerks. It’s like an auto parts store without aisles. You tell them you want: a toilet seat, plumbing part, or whatever. Then they disappear into the shelves behind the counter and return with whatever version of that item they have in stock. And you don’t want to know the prices.

Back to the market.
We turn the corner and there it is. Colors and people in vibrant, rich saturation. I’m not going to detail individual experiences as don’t wish to reveal what gifts I may (or may not) have picked up for you dear reader, but I’ll tell you about the big picture. Every four feet is a blanket laid out with African beads, crafts, or clothing. This isn’t shopping. It is relational. Every blanket-keeper greets you. Not the half-hearted American “Welcome to Mooby Burger.” This is enthusiastic you-are-a-celebrity. I am so happy to see you. Remember, this is Kenya with the friendliest people in the world. They want to say “hello” AND they want you to buy something. Every four feet, on both sides of a two foot aisle packed with people. I greeted and talked to more people in four hours than in a week back home. It was draining.

I returned home after missing lunch. I ate a snack and went to chat with D before dinner. After we finished our talk I went for a walk. (Yes outside. I do that a lot here thank you very much) Then I saw it.

A chameleon.

You know the ones with the curly tails and weird eyes? Yes that one. Totally just sitting on a branch. I was by myself, but I knew what would happen if I was with D and the girls. They would spend fifteen minutes looking at him. And  maybe, just maybe D would pick him up. So I did. Only for the joy of the how excited they would be to see him.  I can’t fathom how much a child would enjoy the beauty of Africa. I wonder how much of it I miss being insensitive to nature.

I held him in my hand for five minutes taking pictures of him like I was L.A. paparazzi. I miss my girls. Seeing so many things alone is kind of melancholy when you have no one to share the experience with. This week has been so busy, so eventful, so relational. Sometimes I wonder if any of it really happened.

I think that is why I write to you. 

DAY 6: Ghost of Kibera, part two

I went back to Kibera today. 
Since I didn’t die last time, I was more confident. The hiking in was exactly the same except that I spent more time looking at people than my feet. I felt more sure-footed and relational today. I said “hello” to far more people and actually talked to a few. I learned why the land is so rough and rocky. Over the years, the people in Kibera harvested all of the clay top soil for construction of mud-housing. So they’ve dug down to the rocks underneath. That’s the low part. The piles of trash and icky; that’s the high part.

We stopped by the first school and the kids destroyed me again. But our goal today was to go to the other school. Thirty minutes deeper in, we hiked past the trash river and came to an open clearing. Children were standing in the courtyard chanting, “How are you?” (Every time I type that I hear their high voices. I wonder if that will last forever?) The school. Their playground overlooks the trash river. As gross as the view was, at least it was an open space.

The children mobbed me like the previous school, but they were more gentle. One girl, Anne, grabbed my left hand. She would not let go. She would not share. So, I asked her to give me a tour of the school. Anne is about 11, and speaks nominal English. Let me describe what she showed me. Imagine a rectangle house made of mud with a rusty 8’ corrugated metal roof. The door opens to a center hallway with three rooms on the right and four on the left. The entire structure slopes to the back and pours into an open closet kitchen at the very back. The first room is the director’s office. Anne pulls me to the next room. (after all what child wants to show off the principal’s office?) She leads me into her classroom, which is the size of my bathroom at home. Dark, no windows. Mud walls. Three “desks” for nine children. No books. No paper. No pens or pencils. Nothing. Mud walls and bench “desks.” I sank inside.

She showed me the other classes. Same same.

I asked Protoss about the discrepancy between the schools and he said this one has many orphans (40 of the 80 kids) and has no funds. Sinking. Anne still hasn’t let go of my hand mind you. Eventually, she has to return to class. I taught a Bible story in the tiny classrooms to wide eyes. The teachers informed us that the children wanted to perform for us.
CONFESSION: I hate school programs. I know I’m a bad guy, but I do. They are a whipping. Anyone who says otherwise is a sentimentalist. I dislike them because they are contrived. Some adult scripts the kids, dresses the kids, and (in musicals) sings for the kids. This was not a “school program.”

The adults had nothing to do with it. In fact, they were surprised.

Anne comes out leading a troop and sang songs which they made the spot with one little girl playing a drum (a bucket). They danced. Anne would sing a line. Then the group would repeat. Anne would sing, they would repeat. They did three songs. The teachers stood behind us and translated with surprised voices. (Everything was in Swahili)

Then a few of the kids recited poems. One or two, I KNOW were made up on the spot. The translations were painful.

“HIV where are you? HIV where are you?
You killed my mother and my father.
HIV where are you?”

The next poem recounted the cruelty of her stepmother, but pleading to be able to stay in the house.

These are fifth graders. 

Yeah. I know. I know.

 

Lunch: 
I helped serve the beans and maize (mongo-sized corn). We passed out all of the dishes, but there are more children to feed, so we wait for some to finish and reuse the plates. Sometimes they washed. Sometimes they didn’t. (I think these kids must have the immune system of Kryptonians.) We get all of the children fed and I look in on them…they are eating so happily. Licking their fingers like it was chocolate ice cream. (They don’t have any spoons) I look down to see brown hands and eyes serving me a standard portion of food. 

Crap. 

I have not washed my hands and I’ve been touched by at least one hundred children today. Some were obviously sick (double barrel green snot streams). All were dirty. And this is Kibera dirt. The dish might be was reused and was washed 5 minutes ago in bacteria infested water from a pan on the ground. I look up and see all of the children are looking at me.

Form a scoop with your first three fingers and push it into your mouth with the thumb. That’s how I did it. I couldn’t bring myself to lick my fingers. I’m eating on a bacteria dish used by a former diner, and my hands are caked in bio-hazard. Now, I’m a weird guy. I’ll admit it. But I’m not a germophobe.

Until today.

I finished the entire bowl out of respect, not hunger. I was done at 1/4 portion. I haven’t been that full since the pizza buffet before I left. Those kids can put it away. After lunch, it was time to go. I went out and played in the courtyard for few minutes with the kids. I drew in the dirt with a rock. The children acted like they had never seen that before and laughed like hyennas. An unseen hand rang a bell inside and the children filed inside.

I held Anne’s hand and said words she didn’t understand. I acted like I was fine and we followed the railroad tracks out.

No dinner for me tonight, thanks.

Goodnight Anne Undunge.
 

Day 5: Yes, I Sunday nap in Africa…

 

I met Aquinas last night. Aquinas is the pastor of the Church I went to today. I think I’m going to save this story for later. It is too complicated.

I spent today at rest. I realized that I’ve been doing about 470% more social activity than I am comfortable with and that I needed a few hours to chill. I ate a protein bar for lunch and came back to my room after Church to nap and read. I’m sawing my way through “Sound and the Fury.” I’m close, but I have struggled much of the way. For those who have read it, I’m on Dilsey’s section and so glad to be away from that jerk-off Jason. I am thinking about rereading the first part now that I have some idea of what in the world is going on.

Observation: The last two mission’s classes I’ve taken required spending a collection of hours with non-western ethnic groups. I think those projects may have been what made this week doable. I’ve noticed that I am able to connect easily with the people I’m meeting, but I don’t have a good category for what to do with the emotions that the connection stirs. I thought I had it figured out when I was falling asleep at nap today, but that was sleep induced delirium.

Basic Report:
I’m eating. Everything has bones or some other abnormality, but I’m not visibly losing weight any more. I still take tylenol PM before I fall asleep to stay asleep all night. (If anyone knows of the active ingredient that makes you sleepy in tylenol PM, please comment it. I’m almost out and they have never heard of it here.)

The weather has been perfect. Today was the first day I sweated. 50-70 degrees. The Kenyans are freezing. It is such a hoot to see them wearing Northeast looking puffy jackets and complain of the chill. I tell them that this weather is perfect. You don’t sweat or shiver. It makes being outside almost nice. I hear that Mombassa is a tropical, hot and humid place. I have ten days there. I don’t think it will be as comfortable AND they have sand.

Irony:
I met two American graduates from James Madison University in Virginia. They got a small grant to build their “stairmaster” water pump project for a village in Western Kenya. They were late to dinner tonight. Mama Bear (housekeeper) said it best, “Boys and a ball. You know?” Coincidentally, there is a European Soccer tournament that has everyone excited tonight. I am just as useless in African sports conversations as American ones.

Tomorrow I go back to Kibera to visit a different school. 

Day Four: Dinner with REAL Africans… This should be “interesting”

Okay. It happened. I knew it would, but I didn’t think it would come so soon. I  mentioned earlier that Peter invited me to his student apartment for dinner. (For mental imagery sake, imagine any low-rent furnished university housing) Tonight was the night. I think you should have to do this with me, so let me tell you how it goes down in Africa. 

First thing: Hospitality. I’ve told you that Kenyans are nice, but I haven’t mentioned what a big deal it is to have a guest. They truly believe that guests are a gift from God. So they treat them like they were. Even when they can’t afford it.

I’ve been coached that I should bring a small gift. I brought a pineapple and  two packs of M&M’s for Peter and Marble (yes, “Marble” is her name and not a typo). I brought a pocket full of school supplies for their children. They looked at me like I had two heads. Obviously they had better gear in their backpack than the spare pencil and pen from the dollar store. They were almost impressed by the candy suckers. I gave his daughter a bracelet that my eldest asked me to give to a little girl in Kenya. That went over a little better. So I cleared the gift exchange hurtle.

Then comes the sit down here alone in the living room while we prepare the meal phase. I watched gospel television. Did you know that Joel Osteen is on in Africa? Later Peter came out and joined me for conversation and it was really great. His son, Bernard, stared at me like I just disembarked from the UFO. We did this for thirty minutes. 

Marble appeared from the kitchen with a basin and a pitcher. Time to wash hands. Yes, they have indoor plumbing. The water was even warm. They do this in the village and it makes sense. “Why do we want our guests get up and go to the toilet or the kitchen to wash when we can serve them where they are.” I’m telling you, REAL hospitality is intense. She poured water over my hands and Bernard gave me a squirt of liquid soap. Marble poured again and I rinsed. They repeated the ritual for Peter. 

Then comes the dilemma. My hands are dripping, so I stand in the living room looking like a surgeon about to scrub in wondering if I’m supposed to wipe my hands on my adventure pants (“adventure pants” = cargo pants seasoned with more than one day’s wear) when Peter hands me a napkin and directs me to my seat.

I sit at the head of the table opposite Bernard. Peter and Marble are on my right; Peter’s daughter and teenage sister sit on my left. We have plates with no silverware. There are three serving dishes, two were covered. The third resembled a plate of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” mashed potatoes. But those aren’t potatoes…oh no. We pray and they reveal to me the food challenge. (errr…menu)

“This (pointing to the mashed potatoes) is ‘ugali.’ It is corn meal.” She cuts, yes cuts, it with a knife and takes a slab and serves the kids. Turns out the “mashed potatoes” have the molecular density of velveeta. This stuff is like spongy white lead. 

“This is ‘ukuma-wiki.’” Greens. I can do greens. Think wet boiled spinach with spices.

“And this is chicken prepared in the Luhya way. Well…half-way.” She pulled back the foil revealing a plate of chicken pieces. I’m going to pause here for a comment. When I say “pieces” you think KFC and picking out what “piece” you will sample or some other form of poultry pleasantness. When I see a plate of chicken bones with the meat still attached, I see TIME magazine’s goriest war photos ever edition, with a special pullout feature on the holocaust. This grosses me OUT. Peter motions for me to “choose.” So I reach my hand into the foil trying not to look like I’m petting a black cobra and take the drumstick. Thankfully, this chicken was more like a place-kicker/punter than an offensive lineman. It was a small leg.

Peter then tells me that I chose the wrong piece. Turns out there is a hierarchy of chicken carnage. The elder male is only permitted to take the “stick.” Thankfully, there were two so he let me keep mine. But then after telling me, “the way you know you are honored in my tribe is if they serve you chicken.” He then tells me that I must also take the most honored part of the chicken. Wait for it…yes, the gizzard. I clench my jaw and reach back into the abomination for the dark brown fleshy thing. At least it doesn’t have bones.

After my plate of intestinal/psychological destruction was set and I recited the mantra, “I will not hurk” a dozen times, Peter asked if I wanted silverware  AKA “mzungu hands” (white-man hands). I declined and followed his tutelage on making a ball with the cornmeal play-dough and scooping up a gob of greens. Surprisingly that was the best spinach I have ever eaten. I complimented Marble and she told me that it was cut fresh today. She grew in their village garden. 

“Village Garden?” I asked.
“Yes. This is our city village here.” She said. 

Marble and Peter explained how life worked in their village and the similarities to their “home village.” This wasn’t their ‘heart’ village. Their real village is where their parents live. This is just a house, but they try to make it as much like home as possible.

You haven’t forgotten the chicken yet have you? Yeah. Me either. Peter took a bite of gizzard. My turn. I scan my plate. Unfortunately, the gizzard lays there waiting and inexplicably resembles a small pig’s ear dog toy. 

“I will not hurk. I will not hurk.”

I hate that guy on Fear Factor, but man I wished I had him on a headset to encourage me.
“Two bites left man! You can do it!”

Then I had to clean the bone of that chicken. Robot chew. Just robot chew. I intentionally bit into gristle and fat. 

I chewed things. Unnatural things.

“I will not hurk.” 

I was sweating, but I did it. We washed hands again. Then there was orange wedges. I ate 3. For the record, I don’t like touching oranges either, (for different neurotic reasons. I hate citrus fingers) but after I ate gizzard, orange juice on my cuticles was like driving 7 over the speed limit after escaping from a double murder, bank robbery with a trunk full of drugs. Whatever. Bring on the oranges. We talked and prayed to close the evening. 

The Saliky family showed me a wonderful dinner and I was so grateful, that I almost cried. They were so appreciative of my visit. Before I left they complimented me. 

“Most mzungus don’t make it. You did good.”

In other news: I spent the day driving around the city in the back of an eight person van. Michael, the catering company boss, took his employees on a tour of every coffee shop and hotel/guest house in the suburb. My job was to give “western feedback.” I sat in the back row and talked about Africa with the waiter and the cook. The best part of the day was eating Africa fast food and getting to serve the Africans. They were totally weirded out by me placing a servlet (napkin) and plastic forks next to their trays of fried food. 

I also got to see Karen’s house from the novel “Out of Africa.” I don’t think I mentioned this, but the suburb here is named in her honor. Her coffee farm covered this part of Nairobi in early 1900’s. Yes. If you’ve seen the movie, Meryl Streep played Karen. Her book was recommended to me by my genius, atheist friend like this:

“Read this. It is the best prose you will ever read.”
“Out of Africa? Like the movie, ‘Out of Africa?’” I asked.
“No. The movie was crap, but she writes some of the best prose ever printed. Shut up and read the book.”

Tomorrow I’m going to Church with a new church plant in the city. They have 15 members and meet outside.

Awkward.