Kenya, here comes elliemack

hellofunfriends,

HERE WE GO!

Wednesday, June 10th I leave for Kenya yet again

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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!  

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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.

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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.

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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.