Week 2 of Staff Orientation: Sirwaaaaa?

You type Sirwa into Google maps and "make sure you spelled your search correctly" reads below the search bar.

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As our bus climbed the sloppy mountainside the accompanying Tarzan soundtrack seemed appropriate. Jungle hedged us in on one side and sheer drops to the expansive valley bound us on the other, the rocky road not even the width of our tires. 

Before arriving at our humble hosts home, our beings gnawed to revel in the view. We called out from the hilltops, watching the rains run toward our perch. 

Chamage!!!! "Do ya love me?"@bborgram

Everyone sprinted to the bus. I ambled down the hillside in fat rain, the water shortage in my coastal Kenyan home not far from my mind----latent Kache (my village name) resurfacing.

The bus continued to navigate up and up and up the rain soaked path....and then, skidded into the jungle roadside. "Everyone off the bus". 

10, 20-something white ladies huddled in the dark jungle in the big rain. 7, 20-something white men shouldered the back of the bus while the rubber spun deeper mud holes.

10 minutes later, we were strapping on our gear and hiking into the blackness, in the rain toward our unknown village hosts! Holy Moley, my appetite for adventure beginning to buzzzzzzz. The start of a good story always begins with rain and darkness and hungry bodies after a taxing day.

The village story of Sirwa.....
The pursuit of an unknown destination,
The joy of the challenge......Is it possible to leave unchanged? 

   

The romance of a Conservant Life

Merely moments after arriving in Nairobi, I jumped whole heartedly into my BlueSky Camp leadership role. I Found slack-lining, climbing, and elephant fun (my instagram!) to be in my immediate job description!

Only 2 days later, on our first Camp Staff retreat we went. The Jurassic conservancy of Laikipia sat before us, enchanting.

For bonding, natural beauty, cultural exposure and conserving the dwindling elephant population we went.

 We all digested much more than we anticipated. Infected by the spirit of bush, we learned the work of a conservancy. We laid in wait, canopied by the Milky Way, for animals. Buffalo, lioness and elephant stalked by. We cataloged animal deaths. An elephant carcass has a distinct punge, more so than other decay. We explored the rough secrets of the untamed land. Gorge climbing and creeking in a jungle seen by few homo sapiens.We hunted our own dinner:

Fat fried termites?...tastes like popcorn! 

With welldone termites in our bellies, the romance of The Bush in our eyes, and a deeper sense of community, BlueSky staff has returned to Nairobi. 

Next up, service project in the remote village of Sirua. All this romping in preparation to serve our campers with the best team and cultural understanding we can muster.

to donate to EllieMack's work with BlueSky, Click Here!

*** type Eleanor Mackintosh into 'other' blank

Last (Stateside) Weekend Check List, Check.

Figure out my iphone...hehehe, check?

Final dad duties, check.

Party like it's 1945 as Rosie the Riveter!, check.

 

Eat my favorite fruit, peachy check. No peaches in Kenya:(

5.2 pounds of Snappy snacks , double check.

Surprised to have Lindsay, the californian sister, barge into my bro-sis drive Friday night, CHECK!

Packing...unchecked.

Donate to support EllieMack's work with BlueSky!

**type Eleanor Mackintosh into 'other' box:)

Kenya, here comes elliemack

hellofunfriends,

HERE WE GO!

Wednesday, June 10th I leave for Kenya yet again

Following my instagram?? Hear the back story behind my clues...

                                    instagram@eleanor.rice

Donate to Ellie Mackintosh and the work of BlueSky!

*type Eleanor Mackintosh into the 'other' box

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.