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!