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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