Arrested?

(I’m going to hop back in time to the end of March, just as I was leaving Sudan. Forgive me the lapse in time, but hopefully the story will be worth the wait. It's a bit long, so grab a cup of tea first!)

Leaving Sudan that last day was hard, but I had already shed all my tears. So my face was dry.

Our flight left early that morning carrying our pilot, me, two other staff members (Dennis and Margaret), and a handful of Kenyan pastors who had been visiting to teach.

Our first stop was Rumbek --a forty-five minute flight from Tonj and our official exit site for Sudan. With the laws changing we needed to get our visas stamped properly to leave the country. But more than that, it was the perfect occasion to meet up with my Rumbukian friends for one final goodbye and to pick up a necklace that was on back-order.

This necklace was a mixture of plastic rods, Sudanese beads, and bullet shell casings. It epitomized the essence of S. Sudan for me, and I wanted it as one last memento.

Since it was finally ready, my friends met me at the airport with the necklace during my lay-over. I was so pleased with how the necklace had turned out, that I put it on immediately.

Touching it lightly with the tips of my fingers, I smiled to think of this last token of  Sudan, then boarded my flight for Loki --the next stop on our flight home.

After Loki, we boarded another puddle-hopper for Nairobi. As we bounced our way back to Kenya, I noted the even weight of the shells on my neck and smiled. The turbulence was particularly difficult that day, but I didn’t notice it much. My heart was already in too much upheaval from my recent goodbyes.

Since our plane was small it took us longer to get to our destination and we landed late in the evening; the hustle of unloading bags and jostling boxes took my full attention and I didn’t pay attention to the guard motioning to my neck. I just walked on past him to the taxi stand.

Initially I thought he was just admiring my prize and so I nodded my thanks and moved on. But as I waited for my ride to show up, the airport guard brought a policeman up to me and pointed accusatorially at my neck.

Finally the blue-suited officer spoke:
-- “This necklace is offensive. Come with me,” he barked, signaling for me to follow.
-- “Huh?”

Confused how a necklace could be ‘offensive’, I wrinkled my brow and asked him to repeat himself.

And he did just that.

-- “This is offensive. This is very offensive. Come with me,” he continued on. Initially I followed him as he marched with irritated purpose... until he took me behind barred gates.

-- “What is the meaning of this? I’m not going to go with you... my friends are there,” I protested politely, signally to my friends standing by the curb. “I don’t understand the problem.” 

Thin-lipped to begin with, he proceeded to pinch his lips into even tighter lines until they all but disappeared. Then he pointed at my necklace with disdain and said, “This is offensive. This is offensive!” He was starting to sound like a broken record.

“This is absurd,” I laughed. “I’ll take it off if it is offensive,” I said, turning my back to him and walking back to my friends. By the time I reached them, the ‘offensive’ object was removed and in my pocket.

I figured that I’d committed some kind of social gaff, and was trying to politely cover up my blunder. But by the time I got back to my portion of the curb, Mr. Thin Lips was at my heels.

-- “You have to go to the police station!” he insisted, pointing to a concrete building around the corner.
-- “What?” I sputtered. “Why?”

It’s at this point my driver, then Dennis, then two of the pastors on my flight all chimed in on my behalf. As they warbled in Kiswalhili, I tuned them out. All I could think of was how ridiculous Kenya was... yet again.

I mean... come on. I’d taken off the ‘offensive’ article. What was the big deal?

By this time the thinned-lipped officer was now red --as red as his charcoal complexion permitted. And as time lapsed, his color deepened.

With more annoyance than fear, I watched my friends banter and beg. They seemed scared for me, but for the life of me I couldn’t understand why.

Eventually, Mr. Thin Lips climbed into our taxi --AK47 cradled in his arms-- and escorted us to the police station. Everyone around me looked stressed, but all I felt was annoyed. This was too much pompous chicken scratching in the dirt for one day. I mean, come on. I’d already taken off the necklace. What else did they want?

The station was literally around the corner and we got there in no time. As we piled out of the taxi, I still couldn’t figure out the hubbub. And... I was too tired to care.

Three steps and we entered the police station only to be greeted by three more thin-lipped Blue Suits. My accuser then confiscated my necklace and handed it to his comrades.
    --Seriously, what was his deal?

He held it high like a prized medallion for all his friends to see. Five copper bullet casings interspersed with plastic and ceramic bobbles hung accusatorially... but I still couldn’t figure out why.

First my friends spoke in my defense. But they switched so quickly between Kiswalhili and English that I could not follow the conversation. But what I did grasp was that they wanted to fine me... no... they wanted to put me in jail.

It’s at this point, I took a step back and watched. What was I missing?

All the while, my heart was calm. I didn’t feel the slightest bit stressed by it all. If they wanted to put me in jail, I’d go. Seriously, what did I care? As best as I could see, this was just another shake down for a bribe.

My necklace exchanged hands a few more times, while the story starting shifting. Only when they started threatening my Kenyan friends with culpability did I perk up. One officer kept insisting that Dennis was Kenyan and therefore should have know about my offensive act. Perhaps he should be fined instead.

It’s at this point things finally clicked in my brain, and I started reinterpreting the conversation in my head.

“Offensive must mean something else in Kenya,” I thought to myself. But the only definition that I could conclude by the circumstances was “Illegal”.

So I inserted “illegal” where they said “offensive”, and it all fell together. They wanted to arrest me, put me in jail, then fine me for bringing in illegal contraband into their country.

Duh!

How could I be so dense? No wonder they were all stressed and I was not!
    -- Ignorance truly is bliss!

Once I realized I was smuggling in contraband, I was even more willing to go to jail. Honestly, part of me was curious what it’d be like. I’ve never been to jail in the States before... why not go to one in Kenya!

But I didn’t tell them I wanted to go to jail. Instead, I interrupted the long discussion with a slight raise of my hand.

-- “Excuse me. May I speak now?” I asked as humbly as I could. The room quieted down to hear what I had to say, and the main Blue Suit motioned for me to speak.

-- “I am so sorry. I am not from here, and I am just now starting to understand,” I began. “I realize now that I’ve done something illegal, is that right?” I stressed the word ‘illegal’ and locked eyes with my accusers. They nodded, a bit relieved that this silly American was finally clueing in to the severity of the situation. 

-- “Also, I must sincerely apologize to you, Sir,” I said motioning to Mr. Thin Lips. “I am so very sorry I did not understand that ‘offensive’ meant ‘illegal’. Had I known I would never have disobeyed you.”

I meant every word.

-- “Sirs, please tell me. What do I need to do to fix this?” This one question settled the room instantly and they switched back to Kiswalhili.

Although we’d already wasted over an hour in discussion by this point, it looked as if I had not yet spoken to everyone; I still needed to speak to the head hancho. It’s at this point I was ushered into the back office to meet their chief.

The room was large but crowded with an oversized conference table, a dozen metal chairs, and a clunky desk. Behind the desk sat a opened-faced man in his forties. He greeted me kindly, indicating the chair before him. And I sat down. 

-- “You know this is very offensive in our country,” he explained with a slight smile. I nodded then apologized again.
-- “Yes. I understand that now. I would never have brought it here if I had known. Please forgive me.” I felt complete peace while we spoke.
-- “Even having one of these shells gives me permission to fine you 10,000 shillings and put you in jail,” he explained clearly. “You have five of them!”
-- “Yes. I do. I am so sorry.”
-- “If I put you in jail, you will have to be here all weekend,” he explained, watching my face while he spoke. “The judge must see your case,” he continued, “and he does not appear until next Monday.”

It was Friday evening. That meant I’d be spending the weekend in jail. I didn’t love the idea... but again. I didn’t mind if I had to go. God would work it out. I had utter peace.

Then he hesitated a bit, so I spoke.
-- “Is that what you want to do?” I asked him kindly. “You tell me. I am a foreigner here. I will do whatever you say. How do I fix this?”

He laughed out loud at this point, and sat back in his chair. As we studied each other, he continued to explain that if he put me in jail, I’d be there all weekend. I think he wanted me to understand the severity of the situation. I assured him that I did.

I listened intently, willing and ready to serve the time for my crime. I told him that if he thought that was necessary, then that was necessary. Then I smiled.

I wasn’t interested in losing my necklace... but I figured that it was long gone by this time. Instead I focused on whether or not I’d be spending the weekend in jail.

I couldn’t tell if he was waiting for a bribe or not. So I continued to smile and waited.

He just looked at me again, laughed, then changed the conversation.
-- “Why would you wear a necklace like this?” he joked, holding the necklace up for us both to admire.
-- “I find it very beautiful. I paid a lot of money for it,” I said sweetly.
That just made him laugh harder.
-- “Why would you pay money for this?” he said with mock surprise.
-- “It’s a beautiful reminder of Sudan. Don’t you see how beautiful it is?”

He laughed whole-heartily by this point, looking back and forth between me and the necklace. I could see he was still not convinced, but there was no denying... he was thoroughly entertained.

He hesitated a few seconds then finally said: “I will not arrest you. Instead I will take all your bullet shells and you will take your beads.”

I nodded that such an agreement was more than fair... then he proceeded to pull my necklace apart.

I was sad to lose my necklace within hours of buying it.... but I was more relieved not to spend the weekend in jail.

With string, beads and plastic bobbles in hand, I stood and thanked him for his kindness, shook his hand briefly, then turned to leave.

With my hand on the doorknob, I turned to tease him one last time. “Make sure you don’t make a necklace with those shells!” I joked “Your wife will not appreciate it!” 

Our eyes met and I held my breath for his response. 

We locked eyes a moment and then he laughed so loud it echoed down the hall and into the lobby. On my way out his officers asked what happened and I explained, “He took my shells and gave me my beads. I can go now.”

I walked toward the door confidently, but my friends hesitated to follow.

Once we were back in the car, Margaret asked, “Did you have to pay a bribe?”
-- “No. He did not ask me for one.”
-- “But...” she hesitated again, “they cannot ask. You have to just offer.”
-- “Well then, no. I did not offer. I was willing to go to jail.” She looked at me in disbelief, so I continued. “I was NOT willing to pay any bribes. I think he realized that and just let me go.”

Only once we were well on our way, did it occur to me how annoyed my friend had been. Apparently, my stubborn refusal to go with the officer, my initial denial of all guilt, and my insistence that he not take my necklace away... had put them in quite the bind. So I apologized.

I really was sorry I’d upset them... but I wasn’t sorry for the experience.

One thing’s for sure... the next time a Kenyan accuses me of being ‘offensive’, I’ll know what he means!

My Cup of Tea

 Normally I prefer my coffee black as tar and so thick you need to chew; but every now and again I take tea.

I find that tea drinkers are a particular breed and for them the right cup of tea can put a smile on their face faster than anything else.

Sugar? Cream? A twist of lemon?         -- Yes, please.

In Kenya, the most popular kind of tea (locally called chai) comes piping hot, creamy, and heaping in sugar.         --Delicious.



The other morning --having a bit of time to spare-- I decided to take tea on the street corner.

As I walked up to the make-shift cafe, no one acknowledged me for several minutes; there were omelettes to be cooked and several other customers to serve. The woman in charge --round faced with sleepy eyes-- greeted me with a smile and I sat down.       

-- Chai, please.

Although not her typical customer (I’m guessing), she poured the caramel colored brew in a battered tin cup asking if I needed extra sugar.

I wasn’t sure if it was sweet enough so I took a sip. Instantly, my fingers burned from the metal handle but I persisted.

Its mellow, velvety warmth coated my tongue and singed my lips.                     --Delightful!

Then for the next few minutes I smiled, took pictures, and cheerfully acknowledged the others also sitting at her cafe.

Only when the strangeness of my presence wore off, did the others settle into their daily routine and I could watch the morning’s happenings.



A couple facing me were deep in conversation but couldn’t help furtively glancing my direction every few minutes.

The grey beard in brown sitting to my right cheerfully chatted up the owner while devouring a thin, greasy omelette. His age gave him carte blanche to stare; and he did so with pleasure.

Easy conversation flowed as the two women who ran the cafe moved about. One peeled and diced potatoes while the other refilled thermoses and fried a pile of thin, greasy omelettes.

The energy and simplicity of it all reminded me of home.

By the time my chai was more than half finished, my taste buds were badly scorched but by spirits were high.

This is definitely my cup of tea!

Monday Monkey Mayhem

After tracking down my package at the post office (see earlier post for details) the day was still young, so my guide and I took lunch.

Fried chicken and chips were just the ticket to boost our wearied souls.

We decided to not waste time in the city since we couldn’t be sure how long it’d take us to get home.

However while meandering through the congested streets, dodging cars, and pushing past the street peddlers and business execs, I found a hole in the wall shop which had some fabulous material.

The shop keeper gave me a price that was more than fair, but in an effort not to offend her I bargained anyway; it’s the Kenyan way.

Here no price is set in stone.

Now, I confess I’m a train wreck when it comes to bargaining. I often miscalculate and underbid which invariably leads to me offending them, or else I get all flustered and pay twice the going rate.

It’s really hit or miss.

But this time I decided to try a new technique --make her laugh. When I succeeded, the bargaining stopped and we shook hands happily over the purchase.     -- I think I even impressed my guide.



From there we snaked our way through a labyrinth of high-rises and newspaper stands. Then it hit me; something was missing.

Scanning the streets, the faces shuffled past in a slow and steady rate. What was different? What was missing? I had to stop to think. Then it hit me!

--“Where are the homeless and beggars?” I asked my guide. “Does Africa have them?”

I knew it was a naive question only an idealistic Mozungu would ask, but I asked it anyway.

My guide considered my question and looked around with me, trying to see it from my Western eyes.

--“Yes. There are beggars here but the government shoos them away,” she explained. “But you know... only those who are not smart in the head or are lame beg.”

I had to smile. She was right. Later I came across cripples begging, but it was the exception not the rule.

She then took me to a bead wholesale store. As I stood gawking in that cramped box with beads stacked to the ceiling, my mind whirled and whizzed at the possibilities.

I’d have to come back for sure.... and with lots more cash that I had on hand.

In the end, I bought several Dinka beads to make gifts and thank-yous, and promised to be back.

From there we boarded another bus to journey home. But halfway there, my guide turned to me and asked if I wanted to see monkeys.

When I asked her to explain she mentioned a free park along our route home. Was I interested?

Heck Yeah, I was interested!             -- I love monkeys. I would love to own a monkey! Monkey! Monkey! MONKEYS!

The park was lush and overgrown. Creeping vines wrapped around towering acacia and gum trees shaded us from the heat and noise.

Deep well-used trails twisted back through small ravines alongside a grey stream. And then the monkeys came.

First it was just one adventurous female. She approached slowly but without fear --watching us for treats.



When we offered her a chunk of our sugar cane, she took it swiftly; then others followed. Overall I must have seen 50 of them scattered around the park --in trees, on benches, playing in the fields.

Clicking off pictures, I soaked in this momentary silence of monkey haven, then we hiked back to the road and journeyed home.

What a day!

Post-Office Odyssey

My directors have been telling me to not have anyone send packages for over a year now.

-- “It’s not worth the fuss and expense,” they’d complain. “It is just better to have people bring it in by hand.”

When I asked them why it was so hard, they’d describe crazy traffic getting downtown to the main post office, long lines ending in inept staff who invariably charged custom fees that should not apply.        

Knowing this, I discouraged all packages (and still do).

But the day came when it couldn’t be avoided; I needed some books that hadn’t arrived in time for one of my summer classes.

More out of desperation than defiance, I had them sent to Africa directly.

The books were ordered in June then sent to Kenya in mid July. My package slip arrived sometime later, after taking a number of people and a taxi ride to track it down.

That was a week or so back.

Since my return from the coast, I realized I needed to get these books quickly or I’d have to pay storage fees. So I arranged for a young girl from church to guide me.

Pink claim slip in hand, I walked the 30 minutes to the matatu (bus-like transport) stop to meet my friend.

Non-stop honking and smoky exhausts coated us as we waited. We were just two more faces in the sea of would-be riders.

To my right, a woman in a sharp pencil-line skirt suit and black stilettos stood beside a grungy day-laborer with motor oiled stained nailbeds; he was carrying what looked to be the engine block of a foreign car.

Matatu after matatu honked their way past, holding up tiny signs of the number of their routes and calling for passengers.

-- “Forty to BS! Room for one. Forty to the Bus Station. Room for one.”

When no one stepped forward from the dusty line, the man would slap the side of the van, signaling to drive on.

-- “Only 10 bob to get to the main stop. Ten to the Station,” another yelled. It was endless.

Dust and fumes smothered me till I wheezed and choked, counting the minutes tick by in frustration. We waited close to 40 minutes but our matatu never arrived.

My guide and translator seemed surprised.
-- “Normally it’s easier to find a matatu at this time,” she apologized. 

She decided to take the only route open and have us walk once we got there. I didn’t mind walking. I just wanted off that street.

The ride into town wasn’t long. The 30 minutes passed quickly as I watched street venders pedal peanuts and fresh sugar cane to the weary passengers. In order to sell their wares, they would run up to the buses and hand them through the windows.

Once we reached downtown, my guide told me to get off in haste. I pushed my way out with little regard for life or limb, then turned expecting to see her right behind.

But no, she’d gotten trapped on the matatu as it sped away!

Panic filled my veins as I looked around in confusion. Not only did I have no idea where I was, I had no idea where I was going!

Fortunately, it didn’t take her long to find a bewildered white woman clinging desperately to her phone; and we laughed.

Walking in circles, eventually we found the post office; but only after asking three separate police officers. The third one told us it was just around the corner. As we turned the corner however, the doors were locked and barred!

Huh?

I laughed to think that the main post office would be closed on a Monday morning. Could this be right? Was it some kind of public holiday?

Fortunately, we continued on around the building and found other doors wide open. Relieved to know my coating of dirt and grime had not been in vain, I stepped forward pink slip in hand.

-- “Can you please tell me where I pick up my package?”
-- “Go right,” she said with a quick gesture of her hand. “It’s in the basement.”

So I went right in search of the basement only to be confronted with more lines, and stairs going to the second floor. So I asked again.

This time, I was informed that in going right I had to exit the building, go through a gate and then navigate my way down stairs.         -- Sigh.

Long story short, it took five people all pointing right before we found the stairs and the man who knew what to do with the now crumpled slip in my hand.

When he handed me my package, I suppressed an urge to cry out in triumph.

No. This was not quite Homer’s Odyssey... but it was awfully darn close.

... to be continued.

Sand in My Toes

This week has been a lovely treat.

I spent it under a tall palm tree on the small white beach, watching the masses of holiday-ers come and go.

With summer upon us, most of the resort guests were from Kenya or England.

Day after day, I played and read and ate.        -- Divine.

Plus, my tan is great. I’m actually starting to feel (and look) Mexican again!

Some of the highlights of the trip were eating Italian gelato with my English friends, watching a sunset on a Dhow with my Kenyan friends, and then sailing through the seas on a catamaran trying to catch marlin with my South African and English friends.

The Dhow boat that took us to sunset watching.

Sunset view

The catamaran named 'Contagious'

The western beach on the way for ice cream.

For those of you who prayed for me not to be lonesome, thank you! I was rarely alone... unless I wanted to be.



Now I’m back in Nairobi catching up on last minute details. I head back to Sudan in one week. Pray that I’m able to get my multiple entry visa in time. Thanks.

Sea Side

Getting here wasn’t easy, nor was it cheap. But I’m glad I came all the same.

My taxi and flight went without a hitch. It’s strange being greeted with “Jambo!” or “Karibu!” instead of the Dinka equivalents. I even started speaking to my driver in Dinka, then burst out laughing when he looked at me in confusion!

What country am I in?

It’s clear to me I’m not in Sudan. But it’s not always clear that I’m in Kenya. Is this really Africa?

If my newest lodging is any indication, I’d venture to say it isn’t.

What I mean is... I’ve finally succumbed to pressure, fatigue, and temptation and come to the Kenyan coast.

The resort sent a driver to pick me up at the airport. And after stepping off the small plane, I was greeted by a gregarious chap named Peter who loves Jesus and claims to live by the two commandments. (No, not the 10 commandments; that’s too many to remember!) He lives by the two summed up by Jesus.

Love God. Love others.         -- How can you argue with that?

We laughed most of the 20 minute drive down the coast as the wind coated me in a fine layer of salt. Palm trees. Coral rocks. Fields of blighted maize.

Blighted maize?

Yes, the drought that has hit East Africa has caused the fields to fail even on this windswept shore.

Peter deposited me at the door of the fancy resort and I was immediately faced with exotic tokens like key cards, towel boys and beach umbrellas.

Is this really Africa?         -- It’s hard to say.    

Don’t get me wrong. I need this break, and I’m going to enjoy it to the fullest. But part of me wishes I weren’t alone.

Anyone want to join me for a little siesta on the beach in Malindi? I would LOVE  the company!

Thanks for praying for me to get some rest. I expect I’ll get more than my fair share here. Is it wrong for me to wish for sun when the drought is so severe? 

Animal Orphanage

There are a number of attractions to see in Kenya, not the least of which is its amazing wildlife!

Kenya is home to a number of animal orphanages. I am told they get most of their animals from illegal animal trafficking. They are able to release many of the animals back into the wild but many of the Big Cats (lions, leopards and cheetahs) can never be re-integrated.

Instead they endure hours of baking in the sun, sleepily watching as tourists pass with cameras in hand.

What they must think of the show... I can only imagine!

Stripped hyenas and civet cats have little havens next to a whole mess of lions and one eerily large ostrich.

(Honestly, I didn’t think they could get so big! Now I see how people could saddle and race them! But riding one looks like a disaster ready to happen. Images of bull riding mixed with a chicken with the speed of a pedigree stallion jumps to mind. Just saying.)

I got to have a monkey eat from my hand. Which was fun. I like monkeys.

And we almost got to hold a 3 month old lion cub... but in the end couldn’t be arranged. The guide would have had to sneak us in and well, the bosses were watching. We came at the wrong time of day.

It was worth it, of course.

Oh... and I even saw a Zee-donk!

What’s a Zee-donk?

It’s what you get when a donkey and zebra fall in love.

Think grey body, pointed ears and stripped legs. Beautiful and unique, but definitely an Oops.

Cooking Up a Storm!

My time off has been pretty chill so far. I have to admit I’ve done little more than sleep, eat and catch up on emails.

A sad way to spend a vacation... but refreshing nonetheless!

The friends I’m staying with have been gems. In addition to putting up with my longer-than-expected-visit, they have let me take their kitchen hostage and cook to my heart’s delight.

Can I just say... I’ve missed cooking!

So far we’ve had sun-dried tomato stuffed chicken breasts, sausage pasta, two different types of apple tarts, a number of couscous salads, hamburgers with an Asian coleslaw. And tonight, I’m making a Filipino fish recipe!

Oh, and I’ve been on a hummus kick, too.  A few days ago, I soaked too many chickpeas and had to do something with them. So I made three different types of hummus. But no one seems to be complaining!

We all love hummus!

So... if you are wondering what I’ve been doing with my time. Imagine me in the kitchen surrounded by fresh ingredients and exotic spices!        -- Culinary heaven!

Woman's Retreat!

IDAT's 1st Annual woman's retreat was last week. We went to Nakuru and stayed in a beautiful bed and breakfast. A lovely woman of God, Dina, came all the way from California to bless us with a study on relationship building. It was much needed and wonderful in so many ways.

The retreat was on a dairy farm which also holds a knitting project to help families effected by HIV. They had horses, dogs and cows (of course! ha!) and most of all.... they had beautiful gardens where we could wander at leisure.

One day we took off for Nakuru National Wildlife Preserve where we were able to enjoy gazels, water buffalo, warthogs, zebras and white rhinos. We drove close to the giraffes and even tracked down a lion but we couldn't get a good look at him. He hid lazily on top of a rock shaded by trees. All I really saw was an ear twitch.

All in all, it was unforgettable.

Culture Matters! - Kenya Edition

Things I've learned about how to live in Kenya...

One: Drive aggressively! Whatever you do NEVER cede the right of way! Take it no matter what! Dominate the road... and then smirk at the person you cut off. Either that... or get no where on time!

Two: Never... and I mean NEVER cry in front of a Kenyan. Kenyan's only cry when they are scared. If you cry during a movie... what does that tell them? You are afraid of the movie. Duh!

Three: NEVER compare a Kenyan to an animal. It is VERY offensive. (aka: stop being such a monkey, you're crazy as a loon, you eat like a pig, stop running around like a chicken with your head cut off... ) So check those crazy expressions at the door ... unless you intend to offend.

Four: If you want to pick a fight... and I mean a slam-bang-black-and-blue kind of fight, click your tongue at a Kenyan. It's the equivalent of giving him the bird!

Five: Being alone is socially uncomfortable to Kenyans. You can always find someone to do something with... Come here and you'll never have to be alone again. (I'm sure there are exceptions... just not many of them.)

Six: If you ask a Kenyan for directions, they may tell you the right way. They may tell you the wrong way... but they WILL tell you something. Why? Is it malicious? Heavens No! This is a shame-based society and saying, "I don't know" would shame them. So don't ask for directions... better to get lost and stay lost then shame a Kenyan.

... that's all I've got for now. I'm sure there will be much more to come.

Kenya Photos 2010

Dance to the LORD!

Last Sunday, I had a truly African worship experience.  My teammate Tyler was invited by a church in town to speak. He was to teach in the morning in an area of town called Pipeline, then once again that afternoon at another church’s youth group.

We were excited to see what God had planned but weren’t sure what to expect. None of us had met Tony (our Kenyan contact) before. As we arrived to our destination, Tony met us and directed us to the church. It was a humble property that looked two steps above a root cellar. The walls were simple mud bricks with a few strategic ones missing for ventilation. Compacted dirt made up our floor and scavenged wood, our roof. But this mattered little to those who gathered to worship.

Worship seems too tame a word to describe it. Each song was screamed to the heavens until voices failed. With arms lifted high in expectation, they danced and danced to Him. After a few hours of this, my heart was happy but my body, tired. Tyler shared and we were all edified.

After lunch we hiked through a neighboring area called Tessia where the other church was located. The roads were so poor we couldn’t pass them in our van. Walking through the streets, it was evident we were foreigners. Children stopped to gawk while women pointed and whispered.

Church was loud and exuberant just as before but this time in a stick building along the main road. It is the first church planted by Apostle Harrison - the first of ten we were told. It was fun chatting with him and a few of the other pastors. Apparently, Harrison went through the Calvary Chapel Bible School in Nairobi a few years back and was happy to share how he taught the Bible scripture by scripture.  --SW

Lights Out!

Today, our electricity went off. We shrugged thinking, ‘Oops, another power outage.’ Not two minutes later came a knock at the door. The man explained he just cut our power.

The reason? Apparently, someone forgot to pay the bill.

He wanted to be paid right away, or else we could spend the rest of the night in the dark.

However, none of us live here. We are just a bunch of confused Mozungu (whites) and our faithful leader is out and about.

The man wants to be paid 250 Shillings (Roughly $3 dollars) in order to turn it back on, in addition to the bill for the last month. Okay. But our main man is out, could you return shortly?

He said he would then left us sitting in the dark. No internet, and thus no way to get our emails out.

Hours went by and he didn’t return. We all had a good laugh and waited for Gordon to get home. As night fell, we pulled out our flashlights and laughed.

Finally, Gordon drives up and moments later the lights are back on! What happened we wondered? What did he do? And how did he fix it so fast?

He went to the fuse box and switched it back on! Yes. It was that simple.

Oh Kenya!

Karibu Kenya!

My flight to Kenya was deliciously simple - if not long. Two layovers quickly turned into three when my first flight was canceled. But our God who cares for the details worked it out for me to get bumped to first class! Leg room is not something to take lightly. Thanks for praying!

Once I landed, I was surprised to find Nairobi more developed than I expected. Even Athens and Spain don’t have airports this nice! Gordon (our faithful logistics man for In Deed and Truth) picked me up at the airport and has been helping me jump through hoops ever since.

I’m now updated on my immunizations and have the coolest looking entrance permit into Sudan! However, they seem to think that I have brown eyes and am 200 cm tall! Apparently, getting the facts right is not a priority.

The Kenyans I’ve had the privilege to meet so far have been surprisingly open and welcoming.

They are a smiling bunch with a penchant for being polite. Their signs are even polite. At a grocery store, I saw a sign saying, “Polite notice. Parking at your own risk.” ~ Don’t say you weren’t warned.

The language spoken here is Swahili and English. Thanks to Gordon, I’ve started picking up some words in Swahili.

I’ve learned to count to ten. And in order to remember them, I sing the numbers to myself over and over like a three year old. Perhaps he wishes now that he hadn’t taught me but it’s too late. Muhuhaaha!

Karibu means ‘Welcome’. And ‘Karibu Kenya’ means “Welcome to Kenya”. I certainly do feel welcome!

My Bodyguard!

While shopping, Gordon is being careful to take me to only ‘safe’ and ‘clean’ places. I asked him why we weren’t going to the open air market since it’s bound to be cheaper. He told me that he isn’t allowed to do it. He knows he’ll get in trouble if he takes ‘risks’ or puts me in unsafe situations. I get that but … we are talking fruit here. Right? No. Apparently there’s more.

I don’t know what more I’m missing but I’m sure I’ll understand one of these days. Half laughing, I asked him if he was afraid I’d go to these places, get scared and run from Kenya screaming. He answered without a hint of sarcasm, ‘Yes. That is it.’

I laughed but he didn’t. Oh, Kenya!

What's OSHA anyway?

  Yesterday, in an effort to get our team the best meat products we went to a specialty butcher. The place was clean … well, for the most part. Our butcher was very friendly, suggesting the choicest cuts. We decided on goat and marinated chicken. 

He took the goat out of the display case and put it on the counter. No gloves. No protective sleeve on the scale. Not even a sink in sight. He then proceeded to take the chunk of goat in back and chop it up for us. He returned with nice little cutlets which went back on the bare counter. He trimmed the fat, weighed it and we settled on a price. Great.

Next we went to the chicken section of the display case. Mind you, he still has goat parts attached to his fingers, the scale has not been cleaned and my OSHA alarm bells are going off. He hand picks a half dozen chicken thighs, piles them on the scale and again we agree to the price.

I’m not sure why this bothers me so much. Perhaps it the endless ‘Food Handlers’ licensing classes I’ve had to sit through over the years. I tell myself to get over it, that’s how it’s done here, etc. But I can’t. 

My stomach churns in dread. Just how many microbes am I going to have to digest today?

All this gives new meaning to praying over your food!

 

No foreigners here!

Today I got shot! Shot with immunizations that is. Apparently, keeping up on your vaccination card is VERY important. When I told my nurse that I didn't have an immunization booklet with proof of all my shots, she seemed a bit surprised and quickly got me a new one. It looks very official with a handful of very cool stamps. Now I guess I'm cleared to fly into the wild unknown!

Next we went shopping for a SIM card and phone credit. I got the card but it doesn't work on my US phone and I may have to buy a cheapy just to get a few texts out. I'm holding out for some place to just hack my blackberry, but I guess that isn't as common as in the Philippines. There has to be a way!

And this evening, Gordon and I and two other missionaries from the Sudan all went to see a movie. We watched Robin Hood. It was nice. But afterward, the couple from the Sudan (Dan and Laura from Minnesota) ate in a restaurant, whereas Gordon and I went shopping for fruit! :- )

I have missed the tropical fruits and am thrilled to find them! Would you believe grapes cost roughly 500 shillings a pound but you can get big juicy mangos for 20 shillings a pound! Yum! Mangos it is!
I can handle that.

But while we were at the store, he asked me if I were comfortable here in Kenya. I told him I was very comfortable but I couldn't quite place my finger on why. So while I walked through mountains of papaya and heaps of pomelos, I considered his question.

Then it hit me! No one was staring at me. No one was calling out to me, 'hey joe!' or making cat calls behind lewd glances. I was all together uninteresting. That's it. I'm comfortable here -very comfortable- because no one treats me like a foreigner. It's refreshing.

In the Philippines, men would call out after me as I walked to the market. "Marry Me! I Love You! What is your name?" I'd laugh and keep going but it was very disconcerting. I was always made to feel like a foreigner there. I never liked the attention but eventually I got used to it.

In Haiti, instead of the silly 'proposals', I got glares and distrusting glances. I wasn't loved because of the color of my skin. I was made to feel 'less than' and seemingly hated as a result of it. I don't mean to pick on Haiti but I must say, the overall effect was to make me feel very uneasy. It was clear I was NOT one of them.

Here, all that is different. I like the fact I draw little to no attention. I enjoy being of no consequence. I appreciate blending in with the crowd. It makes me feel very much at ease and .... yes, even comfortable! Just one more reason to love it here, I'd say!

It sure is nice to be home.

My journey began on wednesday with a canceled plane but got better along the way. Two lay-overs turned into three. But for my flexibility, I was bumped to first class part of the way!

I met a number of characters along the way (missionaries, nuns, BP gas company representatives!) and was able to sleep. I'm glad I thought to bring my own pillow. However, I'm strongly convinced that the airline industry has shrunk the seats and foot space to an all time minimum! Honestly, how much can they be saving my causing all these leg cramps and blood clots? Is it worth it?  Sigh. Regardless, it was a simple trip - long but worth every leg cramp and food stain. (yes. food finds me non-stop on these flights. Ha!)  

When I landed, I was surprised with the number of smiles and sweet consideration. Perhaps, I was expecting Haiti and didn't know it. I hadn't realize this was the case... until I noticed how surprised I was. Remarkable? Perhaps not. But the case none-the-less.

The people here are open and inviting. I get smiles everywhere I go (which offends my french veneer but blesses my American core!). I like a people willing to stare (thanks to France) and smile at strangers (American). I like a people inviting and generous of heart (love you Filipinos! I really do!) and happy to talk to anyone. And so... I've decided to like Kenyans too.

Gordon Sunga (hereto will be referred to as Professa Sunga!) picked me up at the airport and has been my constant guide ever since. He is a young man from the Luo tribe who is the logistic man for In deed and truth. I'm glad he is here. He is a good example of the Kenyan kindness. But most importantly, he has exhibited extraordinary patience with me in learning Swahili. :- ) Thus his new name - Professa!

This morning, after sleeping like a log, I woke to the sound of LOUD exotic birds cawing out my window. The sound soothingly reminded me that I was 'not in Kansas anymore'. However, I can't say it feels foreign.

Everywhere I turn, a sheen of familiarity shines through. The smell of the land reminds me of home. The crazy driving takes me back to the Philippines... but different. They drive on the left side of the road here and my brain is trying to shift to this new dimension. I have to say the reverse images flashing in my brain have shifted a number of times... and not in a good way! :- ) But all the same... it feels very familiar.

But most of all, it's the soft humid caress of the air that brings me home - home to the Philippines. The heavy air and sweet tropical flowers transport me. I feel like I've breathed this air once before. And well... with a happy sigh, I find myself thinking, "It sure is nice to be home."