Fullness

“Inside, Ellie, go inside!” Pastor ushers me alone into a small clay church to witness the happening.

The church couldn’t be more than 12x20 feet. A very presentable room. My eyes only take in the bareness. There are a dozen small tree limbs waiting to be used by the respected elders as seating. Even with the limbs, the space looked wanting.

The congregation coils around the door to catch sight of the transformation. Young men from the watching crowd enter, gleefully transporting the limbs from the floor to the outside firewood pile. Others needle through the crowd with new benches into the hollow room. Benches for the entire community! Finally, the people squirm in to fill that empty room with bodies, prayer, dancing and praise. The church body and the church structure transformed.

In a region with more material scarcity than material things, the 14 benches delivered by Pastor give a reason to witness this community’s fullness.

And full we became.

For hours we gorge on spiritual food, word and fellowship. Our physical bodies begin to quake with the lack of sustenance. Still, our celebratory feast continues. This community has nothing to eat. Why not fill the heart, mind and soul? I muse.

To my surprise, food comes. Beset before us is a traditional Kenyan welcome, a goat slaughtered to celebrate the gift of benches. Out of the lack of this community, they slaughter a goat in our honor!  

◊◊◊◊◊

 

My Kenyan brother peers down at the dish before him with hungry eyes. I watch his face and expect mine to exude the same anticipation, but when my eyes examine the contents of my bowl, I wish the praise and fasting would continue.

I smile at all watching the food they prepared yet will not eat on the account of our arrival. My frantic fingers search for meat as I jovially speak with the church members. Calm face, Ellie. Kind eyes, Ellie. With one I hand I massage a baseball size chunk of ugali into proper eating texture. This buys time to steel my stomach for the intriguing contents before me.

Stew, a safe starting point, always accompanies coastal meats. As I dip the cornmeal ugali into the broth, there is not a tomato or vegetable to be found. Solely comprised of goat fat, the stew is slowly congealing as it cools. Better slurp fast!

My palate identifies an abrasive complimentary flavor amidst the goat-fat stew. As I feared since that first gaze into the depths of the bowl… matumbo.

Somewhere, hiding within this meal is goat intestine. The more ugali used to mop up the stew, the less besieged my stomach feels by the heavy fats and the tamer the taste of bile-flavored intestine. However, I can not avoid the solid chunks any longer. The hungry hosts are waiting to see if I enjoy their delicacy. My fingers dive into the greasy depths again.

LIVER, Whew! Although the taste is not one I desire, I am comforted by this recognizable Kenyan treat. I consume with an honest smile on my face! The only items remaining feel furry, tough and rubbery to my searching fingers. No time like the present. I raise a mass of blood vessels, cartilage and goat hair to my lips knowing this is NOT the time to refuse THE MEAL these people will see today. My incisors can not cut through the elastic veins. The hair is scratching the back of my tongue. The taste of intestine warming my throat.

I smile at the onlookers as I chew my cud and play off gag reflexes as swallowing. I will the entire mass down the hatch and have to breathe deeply once it passes. LORD of all creation, keep that thing where it belongs, not as a second lunch in my bowl! With shaky hands and a plastic laugh for the hosts, I robotically continue the process of consumption.

I reassure church mamas pushing lung into my bowl that I have plenty to work with. I give myself a good nose scratch so I can whisper SOS to my Kenyan brothers. Only eyes can convey the gravity of my tenuous stomach situation. I fear speaking and making any sudden movements. Peter and Daniel jokingly jostle me to finish my portion. I flare my nostrils at them and widen my eyes while shoving more ugali into my face, only hoping the ugali will act as some sort of wall between the churning intestines in my own intestines. “sawa sawa, weka.”

After a quick check for watching eyes, I plop the remaining solid bits into my brothers’ bowls.

◊◊◊◊◊

On the bumpy ride home,

Pastor comments: the church is now full of benches.
Daniel comments: that church is full of the Spirit.
Peter comments: his stomach is now full of sweet goat.
I am full of an ethereal force which bridles my overwhelming urge to regurgitate.

Roka Secondary School

I suppose it was only a matter of time ‘til I found myself where my missionary journey began, on a construction site. Two of my Kenyan brothers and a pair of the village’s Mzee, respected older gentlemen, were commissioned to build a classroom at a nearby secondary school. Daniel, the older of my brothers, had ecstatically accepted his first contract in hopes of establishing his budding construction business. Every morning as I pushed a hot cup of tea into his hands and every night as we stared into the jiko’s coals, he regaled me with progress and problem solving of this premier job. At every meeting, he requested I go and see for myself how he is getting on.

Without much commitment, it became a biweekly behavior to travel with the men of my community to the construction site. The work itself was efficient, not wasteful and creative. We sang, danced and drank sodas as we re-shaped used nails, tap-tap-tap. We climbed trees and chatted as we leveled the tall columns. The men used their bare feet as hands while tying rebar and nailing. Slowly, slowly, they let me participate in the cement mixing, mortar laying and painting.

For now, we are a fixture of the school, just as the new classroom will be. The school day begins, we change into work clothes, and continues as a local Mama delivers steaming beans and mendazi (Kenyan donuts) for breakfast. I chat with the coy school girls in Swahili and begin to make friends. Even with my regular attendance and Giriama(the mother tongue) greetings, the students openly gawk at the white girl. “Even me, I have never painted like that”, one student admits. “You know! You can do…well?! ”, some say.

Daniel, Peter and Mzee Philip remind me, “You are changing the image of the white man. Most think Mzungu men don’t know how to work. And you…you are a LADY!”

My final day at the work site we are chattering about Dallas, Tx. So many questions arise from the group. My brothers have never seen a map of where America is in the world. I rustle through some classrooms to find a globe, we are at a school after all.

We huddled together to see the journey from Dallas to the Kenyan coast on the globe. I told stores of international air travel as I traced the distance from one home to another. Feeling a bit sheepish that I had the money to make such a flight, I looked up at my exclusively foot traveling Kenyans. Mzee looked back at me with such emotion in his face and urgency in his voice “Journeys are difficult and stress and costly. But you came here. Your journey preaches. Serious.”

Homage to a Mama

Mama Clemens waddled from end to end of the village, milk jug in tow. Smiling and grunting the entire way, I could see her head scarf bobbling amongst the maize fields as she came. She tithed 1L of sweet milk daily to Pastor and Mama. Actually, Mama Clemense was the beneficiary who gave us Momma Grey, my dear cow friend. Mama Clemense’s daily milk delivery came straight from the teat of Momma Grey’s calf. No wonder it was so sweet!

She owned a small shop. Supplied sugar, flour, matches, rope to the masses. She would give me a free soda every time I passed.  

Rare for a Mama to own a business on her own, but Mama Clemense was a widow and no ordinary mama.

She knew how to be exactly who she was created to be. Now, She was 54 so had plenty of years to Become! AND she became. That mama can pull the ‘true youness’ out of anyone she meets. Surely, a gift gleaned from her many years romance with the Creator.

In her presence, I found myself grunting, widening my eyes and laughing just as much as her. In addition, I’d try out my tongue tied Swahili. She would wrinkle her nose, widen her bug eyes even more and grunt reassuringly after each word. With laughter, hand holding and sound effects we’d continue. Communication with Mama Clemense, always light and easier than most.

She made it known she was my Swahili guinnea pig and confidant.

Some mornings we’d hunt for fallen mangoes among the bush. Thrashing beside me with her duck feet, her gait made a statement. We’d always come up with a bag full of mangoes that she would parcel out to her grandson, nieces and parishioners as she returned home.

Her favorite shirt was a T she kept pristine. “If you don’t like the news, go out and make some!” it proclaimed in English. I still wonder if someone explained the meaning to her in Swahili. It was the best fit garment I’ve ever seen.

Often times, the two of us would be the only women attending the Women’s Prayer Gatherings at our church. She sat in rapture as I explained my fellowship meetings with young ladies in nearby villages. I learned about her family, shamba (farm), struggles, and commitment to the church. She promised to take me to her shamba.

She loved praying for my Dallas family! However, her face shone with the most joy when she called down the mighty name of the Lawd to deliver me to a Kenyan husband. “You fit here my daughter Ellie. Maybe God will provide a man so you will stay”, she would remind me after her passionate supplications.

Her attention to me and desire to see me was incredible. She valued each church member, each friend, even each little one the same way.

◊◊◊

It has been 1 month since I received the news, “Mama Clemense is dead. Very sorry.”

Mama Clemense did take me to her shamba. We, the village ladies, went to wail. Then, the community went to burry Our Mama.

It has been a month of gathering. All village Mamas are together in our mourning, singing, and talking about moving forward. Mostly, it has been a month of women in the village looking into themselves and each other asking, “How can we live, how can we praise like that Mama?”

With that, Mama Clemense has given us her greatest act of love, challenging us to grow into the joyful sacrifice she so easily exhibited.

An opportunity to try together to fill her duck footed gait. It always made a statement.  

When you give 2 Americans a Jiko...

The packing list provided by SIM made mention to pack specific American treats unavailable in Africa. An asterisked note on the page informed me “there are no American marshmallows in Africa”.

Weirdly specific, I thought with a chuckle.

However, if you put 2 Americans in one locale and exclusively use fire to prepare meals, it is only a matter of time before S’mores WILL BE fabricated. Danielle and myself spent weeks discussing the specifics:
How to acquire the necessities?

Should we make the elements from scratch?

We opened her Easter package we’d been hoarding for weeks to find Peeps, Easter M&Ms and Graham Crackers. We looked at each other with one mind-------- S’mores

We didn’t even wait to finish our lunches! Rushing toward the warm coals, I scoured for sticks as she fanned the remaining fire. Soon, Peeps were expanding to obese yellow ducklings at the end of our sticks. Once on the cracker, we smashed the pastel M&Ms into the sugar coated marshmallow.  
 

I rushed to my confused Kenyan family in the other room with S’mores shmutz still on my face.

Trying to explain they must try our fantastically, American sandwich, it occurred to me that Kenyans don’t eat sandwiches. I encouraged them to try, pantomiming the motion of holding, eating and licking the edges of the frighteningly, brightly-colored thing in their hands. They nibbled the edges trying to make sense of this oddity. Finally, my Kenyan brother, Shedrack, broke the graham with a bold bite. His eyes grew bigger than our chubby Peepes!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

American use of the Kenyan Jiko Continued.....

Cinnamon Rolls

Popcorn
Apple Crisp

Burgers
Chicken Fried Steak
French Fries

Pancakes and homemade syrup

Yeast breads

Cookies
Scones

Tortilla chips

Tacos

Cakes upon cakes upon zucchini bread

Getting Water From the Roots

The average human body is 65% water.

71% Earth’s surface area is covered in water.

No running water in the village means the average Gidiama life is WATER.

We are blessed to have a tap on our property. All other families use wells or boreholes to obtain water. However, the accessibility to a tap does not guarantee the safe delivery of water. Daytime hours never bring water. Usually in the quiet of night, I hear Shedrack, my Kenyan brother, at my window softly calling, “Ellie, Maji.” I’ll shake my limbs into function and unlock the doors to deliver our 20 liter jugs into his wanting hands. We sit under a star-studded mango tree murmuring over the trickling tap.

One jug in each hand, we take turns trudging back to the house to empty the jugs into the waiting 250L drums. With a deep knee bend and the summoning of bicep power, the drum filling deed is accomplished once. Now, about 11 jugs to go (depending on how dry each drum is). The jug gluggg-gluggg-glugggs into the drum. It’s mesmerizing.

We continue in the sloshing, glugggging, bubbling, trickling sounds of the night.

˟˟˟˟˟

As of late, the tap has been unresponsive in all hours of the day and night. We have been relying on the rains to supply us with the resource. The rains seem to know when I’m literally diving into the drums to reach the final pitchers of water. They have been quick to follow our lack with a downpour.

˟˟˟˟˟

The seasons continue; the rains are beginning to taper; harvesting rain water can not be relied upon. The nearby tap hasn’t been delivering- I think it’s an issue with the pipe. The wells are good, just far, but we must go.

We spend afternoons at the well with the other mommas; it’s a biblical feeling. We sit around and chat. One gal will pump for some time and fill up the available jugs and containers that are near. Once she tires, the next woman will take her place. The woman pumping, does not only fill her family’s jugs, but continues on to the surrounding ones too. Some things here are an ever present reminder of where our heritage comes from, the Israelites. It feels good to try to understand my roots.

Class on the Doodoo Class

Doodoo. N. [pl. doodoos.] a wide variety of indigenous insects, microorganisms and bothersome creepy crawlers. Moment to moment companions of village life.

Can be classified into 3 pools: 1. those that don’t raise Danielle’s blood pressure

                                                      2. those that illicit a panicked “Ellie??” from Danielle’s mouth
                                                      3. those that raise both Ellie and Danielle’s hairs, but Ellie kills anyway
These classes have been meticulously noted over 3 months of study. There is daily field work to support such divisions in the Doodoo kingdom. Although extensive mental cataloging has taken place, the breadth of their members is too extensive to exhume here. However, the general rules can help us imagine all forms of the doodoo that fit into such classes.

Class 1, Aptly named Irritants. Enjoys coexisting alongside the missionary. Whether sitting, standing or sleeping these crawlers look at the long skirt as an exploratory invitation. Tickling as they go, the small(ish) explores go where no man has gone before. The missionary, no longer phased, often ends the expedition in a crunch between skirt fabric or does a stanky-legg bit, before the skates get too high.

The airborne irritants take heightened interest in day old food, outhouses, lights, the inside of the mosquito net and the missionary’s toes. By the sheer exposure, there is hope of discerning between the sex of the male and female fruit flies. The infested fruits and breads must already know. Constant happy feet ward off the larger airborne irritants. Reading and sleeping become very active pass-times.

The most interesting irritant is the Kamikaze. Dropping, not flying, from broad daylight. The missionary finds mzungu (white person) hair to be a grave disadvantage. The skydive attempts go momentarily unnoticed. Then, prove to be difficult to find. The missionary concludes ignorance can be bliss, until the tickling begins.

 

Class 2, Escape Artists. Usually appearing at night, Class 2 lurks in corners, latrine holes, books, folded clothing, until disturbed. Surly from being disturbed, Class 2 enjoys making a mockery out of an unsuspecting missionary. In an attempt to spare these crunchy lives, the missionary called to the front lines hops around the room like Gollum, broom in hand, herding the Escape Artists. The Escape Artist is always the master of ceremonies and Kenyans in the room can’t help but enjoy the show.

When fried, some of the Escape Artists (I hear) are quite the delicacy. The missionary promises to channel her inner Simba from the Lion King, at least once, if she encounters fried Class 2.

 

Class 3, Gird Your Loins. A small, yet mighty category. The saying “Everything’s Bigger in Texas” may be true, but everything is biggest in Africa. Class 3 is usually so large it appears to have bones, but is unsettlingly fleshy when killed.

Doodoo’s that illicit Gird Your Loins are always killed.

The missionary tried to cremate one in the kitchen fire. Quick to learn: a multi-legged, squirmy thing, of that size can only produce the MOST pungent rancor (which does not dissipate); and is an easy way to get alone time in the house.

The most teeth gritting Class 3 is commonly known as Tarantula. Approximately 3.5 inches in diameter, thankfully, he did not move one of the eight eyeballs as shoe-hit-hairy mass-hit wall. The missionary reports a victorious terror at the ease of this kill.

 

Doodoo Tamer. N. Eleanor Rice Mackintosh. 

Siku Mmoja- One Day

6:00am Ninaamka- Wake! Little children chirping as they run to school, shambas (farms), or errands for their parents is an immediate energy boost.

6:10am Ninafagia- Sweep! I grab one of the reed brooms and sweep the halls, rooms and kitchen. The walls of our house do not meet the roof. Critters of all kinds come in through this space. In the mornings we are greeted with a film of moth wings, cockroaches, ants, assorted other wildlife unable to find it’s way out in the night. Plus, the schmutz left behind by our sandy feet from the day before. Better to start the day with a fresh floor.

 

6:45am Ombe kwa Asubuhi- Morning Prayer! Sometimes under the mango tree, sometimes in the maize field

7:30am Chakula-Food! We eat as a family: bananas, wheat buns or chapatis, tea. Kiddos do the
serving during meals. “one lump or two?”

8:00am Walimu wanafundisha-Teachers Teach! The school is on our property and begins at 8 even though the students have been arriving since 6. It is a cement slab with palm frond walls and a corrugated tin roof! Fun when it rains; sometimes, school is cancelled.

8:30am (or whenever milk comes) Chai! I use either charcoals or a gas camp stove to make chai. The milk comes from a parishioner’s cow. Mamma Grey won’t produce until her calving! As the milk and water are warming, we add tea leaves and ginger. AND, I keep both eyes on the boiling mixture- Unfortunate stories involving me and milk loss and chai flavored mozzarella keep this rule fresh in my mind.

9:30am Uji -Porridge! A local Momma arrives to cook porridge for the school children. She is a tiny, yet mighty woman, whose skin looks years younger than the time required to rear her 6 children. I help her carry jugs of water, start the fire, stir, wash and pour as I practice my Swahili. A patent, peaceful soul, she laughs and laughs at our mutual confusion.

10:30am Tunacheza- Play! Chat, play, sing, dance with the children as they eat porridge on their break. This is cup of boiled maize meal is the only meal some of these children will eat in a day.

11:00am Ninasikia- Listen! I sit in on a class. Not only do I learn Swahili and the children’s names, I too, learn the Kenyan way of teaching.

11:45am Chamchana-Lunch! We wont eat til 12:30 or 1, but I’ve gotta get the charcoal goin. “Momma: beans, maize, rice, green grams, cabbage, boiled sweet potato, or tomato stew???” The normal selections are good fall backs. Lucky for me though, she is open for suggestions and has a good bit of creativity. Cinnamon cabbage came out of the kitchen the other day. De-Licious! She gets credit for the idea.

2:00pm Kulima-Farming! Either dig my hands into our sand or meet a neighbor that needs extra help. With a Jambe in my hands, a long skirt and a bandana around my head I feel like a straight
African Momma.

4:00pm Usirika-Fellowship! Organized fellowship occurs on our property 6 days a week: bible studies, choir practice, prayer days, classes, Church. There is always loads of handshaking at these events. I have always held an affinity for the handshake greeting. You can measure a man and see what work the lady finds. It seems more personal in a culture where hand usage is integral: eating, washing, drumming, grinding flour, clapping, milking, mud hut building, farming, sewing   

5:00pm Tunapiga Mpira- Kick the ball! In America, it’s no secret that soccer is NOT where my sport talents lie. Well, the secret’s out in Africa tooJ.However, the amazing thing is how that short coming has directed my time on and off the field with the young boys here…more on a later post!  

6:00pm Tunapika- Cook! Certainly a daily highlight and a gathering time, place. A hot jiko, small hearth holding smoldering coals, draws all nearby Kenyans. Ladies visit, men advise, children feed the flames as we cook: mboga (greens, beans, maize, vegetable stew or lentils), a starch used as an eating utensil (chapatti, rice, ugali), if we’re lucky nyama (goat, fish, chicken, cow). No cutting boards to be seen, yet an armory of large machete knives. 

8:00pm Imba na Ombe- sing and pray! Before eating, we share a passage from the Bible and I try to keep up as we sing a chorus. As a Kenyan sings, the lips become very important to the sound production, or so it seems. Always protruding and overly active, their lips dance. Kenyans too, love to harmonize and take creative liberties with the lyrics. Awesome, I take this as positive reinforcement to jump head long into tunes and Swahili that I don’t know.

8:45pm Usiku uhai- night life! Tea with a side of conversation bring a close to the evening. I gravitate to the dishes and check for last minute chores as people filter off to their rooms. In my room, I close up shop with reading, a little yoga, writing, music, typing blog posts, or studying Swahili. 

Anywhere from 11pm-4am Maji- water! Water fetching is a nightly duty for us in the village. The heavy usage during the day keeps the water from reaching our tap in the daytime. Our grounds man wakes to check for water periodically during the night. When the water is here, first, he rejoices!!!!! Then, he chooses a lucky someone to help fill the 20L containers. These containers are poured into 250L drums until every reserve is completely refreshed!

Tosha kwa siku mmoja- Enough for one day.

Moving Day!

I’ve made many friends here in Kenya. Most black, some white, a notable canine and our bovine. Momma Grey, I have named our sweet girl, has a white star on her head, tough horns and is with child! From day one, it was clear we had a special thing going on. It began by walking the well-trod sand paths in search of her peaceful, cud-chewing face. Soon, I daily approached her at pasture to rub her nose and talk anything over to her patient ears. Now, I casually feed, clean, read books, and snuggle up to her soft hide. The school children gawk and laugh. I don’t blame them: I am friends with a cow, and I am unafraid of the horns as so many of them are.

Despite our mutual enjoyment, she does happily snort at the sound of my voice, I was never given the task to take her to pasture. Kenyan Momma and Pastor were afraid I did not have the strength. I respectfully accepted this.

However, this week…

All the men on our property took a day trip. The children came to play football in Momma Grey’s grazing field. The time has come! She takes my lead well and we set off in search of “grassy” areas. I tie her to a palm near some neighboring huts. She immediately gets to munching, swishing her tail happily. Success! Woah, Momma Grey is on a mission. She is definitely eating for that little one in her belly. Holy heck, she is in a distinct trajectory clearing green stuff.

Suddenly, a chorus of Swahili pipes up from behind the mud walls of a hut. Women run from their house waving their arms violently, then, pointing at the greens spewing from Momma Grey’s mouth.  Their crop….darn.

Quickly, I prove that I understand. I pick up the lead rope, click my tongue to get her attention and take a power stance. All of my thigh strength and by body weight are just enough to counter the interest Momma Grey has in her expensive feast.

The ladies nod in approval and return to their huts, say one. The laugh lines dig deep into this woman’s otherwise seamless skin. She has a 2 tooth smile and a very granular, soft voice. Through body shimmies and grunts we determine a suitable tree to tie our lady cow. She hobbles toward me in thanks and I’m fairly certain she welcomed me to her house to enjoy a laugh about the whole thing. Unfortunately, house duty calls and “dinner is not going to cook itself”, as they say. We exchanged names, hand shakes and toothy/toothless goodbyes.

“The cow, she has been moved!”, is pastor’s first remark upon returning home.

“Yes, Momma Grey and I walked together this afternoon.”
“You! You are a strong Lady.” And he laughs the heartiest I've heard since I arrived.

 

Faith like Ganze

One of the first facts I learned about my Kenyan Momma and Baba: They are Kenyan missionaries!

This is their 12^th year living on the coast. 2 years ago, Pastor and Momma took a trip inland to Ganze to plant a church. It just so happens, my second Sunday here in the village, the Ganze church was hosting a second anniversary celebration of sorts.

Naturally, Pastor’s entire congregation was invited and eager to attend the celebration!

A good looking bus appeared in front of the village church while the morning air was still cool. Parishioners, in their crisp Sunday attire, had been meandering into Pastor’s property since the sun rose. Ladies were flitting about sweeping the sand outside our house with bound palm brooms. They work in circles to clean the mango tree’s droppings, creating endless sand eddies. Men stand around discussing the weather. The children played with each others fine dresses, anything to keep occupied. Finally, time to board the bus! Our bus, crammed fuller than a sausage casing, sways on the sandy road until the delayed traction can start her down the lane.

 

We barely begin our journey and a single voice raises to a chant. Excitedly, the whole bus joins in the hymn. Today, the Kenyan call and response hymns are brimming with expectancy. We are audial and visual joy to the mommas and babas stoop-sitting at the homes or farms we pass.

Thick into the bush we go! The farthest most of the villagers on the bus have ever travelled! My sweat is taking long journeys of its own, tickling my scalp to my knee crevices. The Kenyans are wary of getting their best clothes dusty, so opening windows is beyond mentioning. I do anyway.

Arrival!, just about the time my shirt is saturated with sweat, and step into the gusty plain of Ganze. There is incredible and varied terrain beyond the field. Tents are erected on the land which I’m now occupying with a starfish stance in hopes of drying out. I tell the Kenyans my stance is in celebration of our arrival and the day to come:).      

A quick visit to the premier church in Ganze, a corrugated tin room, then into the tents for the celebrating.  

The celebration kicks off true Kenya style: speakers blaring a drum beat, 2 or 3 strong voices in harmony, and a myriad of tribal, yet excellently choreographed dancers. The choir is electrifying! Their movements explain the meaning of the Swahili words. I am jittering in my chair to the drum. Unashamed to try the hand and shoulder motions in my seat, my excitement elicits looks, laughs, and other seat dancers from the surrounding Kenyans.

The speaking begins. All in Swahili. I expect this, but when the speaker is separated from me by a grassy expanse, the language barrier feels rigid. I can not read the lips. I can not watch the gesticulations closely or pantomime myself. I can not quizzically ask him to slow down. Staying engaged, not to mention staying awake, are taking superhuman strength! Another speaker takes the mic. My mind is in syrup. Several members are being introduced. My butt bones hurt a touch, a little, a Little, a LIttle, a LITtle, a LITTle, a LITTLe, a LITTLE, A LOT. The mic is handed to the next meandering speaker. Ok, my rump bones are aching. Are they even speaking Swahili anymore? No, the new speaker is deep into Gidiama, the mother tongue of my villagers. How polite! I wish I could share their delight.

Well into the 5^th hour of this celebration. my purified water depletes. Breakfast cleaned from my ribs at my disembarking moment from the bus. But now, the exhaustion from tugging my brain for every Swahili word spoken is gone. I’ve stopped listening.  

The choir suddenly reappears on the field as a bathtub size pot holding lunch is produced. Seat dancing ENERGY is restored upon sight of both stimuli. If only recharging always come this easy.

Prior to our arrival, Momma briefed me on the Ganze area. This region of Kenya is considered one of the poorest areas of the nation. Directly related to the lack of water sources and rain, the people of Ganze are lacking in natural resources. They struggle to grow food for their families. There is much less to sell. If time is money in America, water is currency here. At the moment, there simply is none.

In that moment, Ganze is feeding 200 mouths. That afternoon, Ganze sent us home with the leftover maize and beans.

Our village does not have much. We must to fight for water and our children have one pair of Sunday Best. But, we do have more than Ganze.

What faith! Despite creating a deficit on our behalf, there is trust there will be food enough for tomorrow. There are steely eyed men trusting in the rains to come. There is faith that Ganze’s generosity will be turned into blessing. Faith in the provisions and the Provider for survival. 

What faith do I have in comparison?

Quiet Village Arrival

On 4/18, our bus rattled through the Kenyan mountains and bush like a neon pink submarine: no one or thing (including fresh air) in or out for the 12 hours of travel, say one bathroom stop. I did not drink any water that day until we were 1 hour from our destination.

In near darkness, the bus pulls off the shoulder of the paved road. Plain pooped, I follow Danielle down the bus steps.

“Ahhh, a quiet village arrival”. I can only make out sandy earth and giant palm shadows from the light of a seldom passing vehicle. Before my foot touches the sandy ground, my safe passage out of my neon sardine can is blockaded by dozens of hungry eyes. The dark faces momentarily blend into the dark outside world before my eyes adjust. For the moment, it’s only eyes I see. Tiny hands grab my faltering body and pull me onto the earth. The same hands pull at my backpacks and touch my white skin, glowing in the headlights of the bus.

Contrary to my Indian molded instincts, I surrender my packs when I see Danielle had all pf her parcels to the rib-high mob. Danielle’s Swahili is easily flowing now toward the children who mop it up with giggles and wiggling excitement. They push my rump, pull my arms in the direction of complete darkness with surprising might! I am swept up alone in the current.

I keep my eyes peeled incase I need to return the way I’ve come and now can make out shadowy huts, Mommas with firewood on their heads, humble kitchen fires. The path is sandy. One child in each of my hands gently ushers me along. Speaking encouragingly to me in a language I do not understand. The kiddos circle about laughing and looking at me as much as possible! By now I am empowered by their protective, loving and excited energy. I distinctly remember feeling empowered, strong and protective right back toward these bite-size guides.

“They are taking you home!” comes Danielle’s small voice, somewhere far behind the mob.

We pass a waving woman whose smile seems to glow against the night. The path turns into a tree lined runway. “This is my life! THIS IS MY LIFE.” As we continue, I ask children’s names and ages in my shaky Swahili. Oh, the glee from those responses! Some are too excited to speak their names. I understand, I am too excited to remember them!

Nitaenda!!!!!

I have about 18 hours to prepare for my coastal move. So, how am I spending my time?
One word: SKYPE.
The packing, last minute purchasing, cookie eating and laundry will certainly get accomplished. It’s the joy of seeing faces that’s taking precedence.

A 12 hour bus ride on Good Friday stands between Nairobi to the village. What am I most looking forward to?

Journeying the landscapes of the in-between while mentally journeying to Mount Cavalry.

Leaving Nairobi and Rose compound after 1 month! What will I miss most?

My language learning helper. We cooked, went to market, shopped for clothes, drank countless chai, watched movies, played uno, read the Bible, played guitar. She is an irreplaceable friend.
AND
The compound relationships! Thanks to the expertise of a young boy on the compound, I am departing with a whittled spoon and fork. My volleyballing, therapist, cinnamon roll eating buddy. The badminton gauntlet. I’ll miss the Easter tournament! My banana frying, sweet singing neighbors who fed me on numerous occasions.

Merely 5 months of service in the coastal village. What builds my anticipation?

The promise of mango trees, milking cows, and Swahili immersion. The coaching of PE, relationships with the coaches, squatting (in a skirt) in the maize fields while I work the land.   
 

 

4.18.2014 will begin my technological brown-out. Please be patient with me as I respond to emails as timely as possible.

 

Prayer:

Danielle’s (my American housemate) transition to having an American buddy
Patience with Swahili
Relationship with Pastor and Mama
Transition in to my ministry role

Anglican church service in Nairobi…HOLY HECK!
 
In an SIM meeting, an acquaintance of mine mentioned having a husband who is the rector at Holy Trinity Church in Kibera, a slum of Nairobi. Poor woman. After learning of her church background, I directed question after question toward her: husband? family? the church? the congregation? Etc? etc? etc. So, naturally, I asked for her number and arranged to attend with her the following Sunday.

WOW different, but WOW the same:) The Sunday I attended, we celebrated mothering Sunday, not the most traditional of liturgies. We celebrated in both English and Swahili, my attention rapt, during prayers and liturgy, for words I could recognize. Very unusual for Kenyans. The women, especially mothers, were CELEBRATED with intention and vigor! Women led the entire service, preached, offered skits, song and dance in thanksgiving to their mothers after the readings. All of this to recognize the underappreciated (in Kenyan culture).

 

Prior to the service, the rector (the husband of the co-worker) welcomed me into his office for tea and mendazi, Kenya's donut. We sat in his small, austere cell and discussed being Anglican. He was very curious about Church of the Incarnation, so I gave him Bishop Burton’s name at the close of our conversation. I learned he studied at Wheaton and Mennonite Eastern in VA and had travelled far and wide for the Church! As we chatted and laughed deep from our bellies, Kenyans have very big laughs, the choir voices welled up in practice in the adjacent room. I started tearing up (he didn't notice. dark room, whew). The moment, the music, the donuts, this man’s familiar collar were all so Good and so distinctly Kenyan.

The choir was on fire during the service and a rail thin baritone led the congregation when we all sang together. Funny that such a thin person produces something so low. During the offering, someone presented a chicken as a tithe. They made me, the muzungu=white girl, stand up at one point and introduce myself to the congregation. Before the Kenyan faces, I felt so foreign and so familiar.

Afterwards, the mammas swept me out to the courtyard for chai hour. In a flurry of hospitality, I soon had more chai and mendazis in my hands along with a gaggle of ladies pecking at me and my story. While still digesting the mendazi and eagerness of the blue dressed women, I was led to a lunch cooked in honor of those who served. Steamy stew, orange rice, and cabbage slaw shoved into my mouth. Yet, the rector and wife would not let me leave unless I took 3 bananas.

Good people.

Adventure Pride School

I was tired that morning as I meandered into the slum. There were glass paned butcher windows butted up to the key-hole doors in the mud and stick houses. There were chickens and kittens picking through the trash in the narrow lanes. Women with large drums of grain atop their heads and broad cars somehow managed the same tight space between mud storefronts.

I didn’t truly wake ‘til I met the bright eyes of a woman rolling out chapatti, a round flat-bread. Seated in the center of the road, she prepared her bread over open flames without taking note of what her hands were doing. Her head oscillated up and down the lane.

“Habari” I muttered, pushing out the greeting so she wouldn’t hear my poor pronunciation.
“MZURI, SANA!” she beamed. There was no need for her affirmative reply. Her eyes had excitement and peace while her hands continued what they had always done.
Continuing, I felt jarred awake and somehow grounded in Kibera (a Nairobi slum) myself, excited for what my expedition of the day had in store: a visit to Adventure Pride School.
 

Students poured out of the weathered, yet well-constructed church building. I slipped inside. Its high ceilings, in respect to surrounding mud houses, and white washed walls were the first hint of the uplifting intention this school invested in the lives of these students. The ethereal energy amongst the focused students remaining at their desks and the solitary light bulb in the center of the great room, was hint number 2. Good things are happening here!

After being ushered into an adjoining 4x4 mud office where 2 smartly pressed headmasters gave me the facts*, I was allowed to freely interact with each class. Budding off the great room were three mud classrooms. The first mud classroom I entered, baby class, was full of 4 and 5 year old faces gawking at the white girl. I bit my lip to keep from chuckling at the wide eyes and adorably chubby cheeks. I listened to a bit of “wind, sun, sky” parroted in high pitched voices---English class. The students in each mud-room sat at low wooden benches regardless of the class age. They were tightly packed side to side on each bench and long wooden tables butted up against the backs of the preceding row of students. In one of the classes in the great room, this room houses 6 classes total, the students stood to greet me with, “Hello Madam!” I led an interactive question game for a bit with this boisterous group.

On the way out to the final mud-room class, I passed a 20 gallon tin pot bubbling over hot stones--- Lunch! (some of the students’ only daily meal). I asked the final classroom, 14 year-olds, what they wanted to be when they grew up. A surgeon, a teacher, an astronaut, a trustworthy politician!!! In this little mud room, lit by the early morning sun, these teenagers have a deep understanding of where they are in the world, TRUE hope in where they CAN go, and an honest joy in the process.

“And, madam, what do you want to be when you grow up?”, an earnest face asked:)

 

*THE FACTS.

-the school hours are from 8:20am-3:30pm. However, they open their doors at 6am to receive students and close up around 6. Most students spend these 12 hours in the safety of the school walls! This is family.
-6 core subjects are taught: English, Kiswahili, Math, Science, Social Studies, Life Skills/Bible Based study
-the school purifies their own water using the sun, corrugated tin and water bottles-GENIOUS and sustainable:)
-Thursday is the one day of the week the students have P.E. Throughout the year they will put on dramas, and enjoy other creative arts.
-the school hopes to buy new uniforms for its students and is in desperate need for expansion.
-the headmasters were slum children themselves. They both have lived with want, schooled, went to college and now pour all of their lives and resources into these children.

The biggest toddlers I've ever seen

Fun fact: every Kenyan I have asked thinks elephants are ugly.

I have to disagree. I have seen the elephant orphans…

Last Saturday I traveled a mere 10 kilometers out of central Nairobi- past the slums, past the motocross course, past the artisan/merchant outskirts- to Nairobi National Park. A few smallish stables and other wooden buildings dot the bush. Besides these few structures, the landscape cascades from between the trees. The elephant orphanage.

I stood next to the guard rope and strained to see into the bush. A Kenyan in a green jumper emerged wheeling several dozen bottles, followed by a string of 15 self-conscious, yet hungry toddlers. These youngsters hemmed and hawed until a green-suited keeper handed them a bottle. Slowly, the elephants joined a 15-bottle salute, each trunk cradling the bottle above the elephant’s head in an apt position for suckling.

As he or she finished, each elephant took to play time, they are merely toddlers after all. In typical toddler style, some threw tantrums for more milk, burping and ‘open-mouth breathing’ in the keepers’ faces. Most of the elephants’ mouths were between 5-6 feet high, giving the keepers a facefull and instantly endearing me toward their quirkiness!

The head-keeper explained the orphan project, named and told the story of each elephant orphan, while I watched them gafaw. “ok, he is just making up names and stories for these big critters”, crossed my mind. However, as I watched, I began to notice idiosyncrasies of each elephant’s personality. One kept getting stuck in the water hole, it’s legs too short to climb up the lip to dry land. She kept back-sliding on her tummy into the mud! Her elephant buddies stood ‘round watching, until one plopped down right on her head. I mean, just sat on her friends head for a bit, jesting at the others with her trunk, then, rose to eat some leaves. Another tried to assist the waterlogged elephant by using her head to push the rump of the stuck elephant to dry land! The helper finally gave up and ended up playing with the soccer ball!!

One loved rolling in the dirt on his back.
One playfully lassoed her trunk overhead and looked at us as if, “check this out”.
One sat down like a dog on the edge of the waterhole and slid into the water like a waterslide!
The two youngest, 5 months old, were too coy for those type of shenanigans. They walked the perimeter of the rope with their trunk resting on the ankle of the keeper. These little ones were only about knee height from ground to top of the head!! Once close enough, I rested my palm atop her dirt caked block-head. She wiggled her hears (maybe she’s seen dumbo) in response:)  

AHHHHH! They are so adorably human.

Even better than my wistful elephant watching, was hearing about the care and successful reintroduction of these elephants in to the wild. The David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust is good people. Part of their operation is funded by an elephant adoption program. This program allows the donor to select a specific elephant to foster for a year and allows the donor privileges of watching the elephant bed any night, emailed updates on progress/happenings, and watching some of its reintroduction to the wild (assuming that happens the year you foster)!!!!!! WHATTTTT? I know I promised to return home without any adopted children, BUT…..early ‘me-gift’ for my birthday? Possibly.

 

David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust Elephant Orphanage: http://www.sheldrickwildlifetrust.org/index.asp

Video on website above. Anti poaching! Brief traumatic images:
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Yum!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

!

Into the Unknown City

Nearly a full week of orienting under my belt! My head is spinning from the mass quantities of info, excitement for my ministry and how quickly tight relationships form. Some kind of solidarity unites adventuresome, foreign, brothers and sisters in Christ on a self-sustaining compound—who’d a thunk?

I’m wading through Lent in this new environment. As I was leaving Dallas, I reflected on how this experience would affect my Lenten commitments and intention. Now, sitting amongst the Nairobi traffic, Lent has surprised me with an AfricanEllie parallel:

I am in a Matatu, a public minivan outfitted with neon plastic seats, blaring the best of Kenya radio. The excitement for reaching the city center is building while I jostle among a throng of Kenyan bodies. I am travelling to inner Nairobi for the first time. The unknown.

In a broader context, the anticipation to get to the coast is building! Not only have I learned there are 8 newly trained (a few months new) women coaches in an area where women’s sports have never existed, the coastal planting season for maize is nearly upon us!
Now, Lent, a time devoted to travelling deeper into God’s unknown city, is palpable. As I pursue depth in my Lenten discipline, my anticipation for Eastertide magnifies. My understanding of sacrificial suffering holds new weight. My hope in the resurrection becomes more resolute!

A hunger to get out there to share sports and agriculture grips me. I am not ignoring the challenge to come, rather, I’m revitalized by the importance of dying daily to be with these people, playing hard for this village and, and breaking my back in labor.

 

Bring on the grit, sweat, exhaustion that is the unknown.