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!