A Place of Rest.

Right now I’m in Rumbek, a city a few hours drive from Tonj. I decided to take my R&R here instead of going to Kenya because it comes out much cheaper for me. Plus, the low-key atmosphere is healing.

Each morning I wake to birds chirping and the gentle swish of the grounds keeper sweeping outside my cabin door. Some mornings I lay in bed longer than usual just to listen... and soak up the peace it brings.

The new baby Bush Buck.

The hotel I stay at is full of bird-crowded trees, including a mess of vultures and a spattering of woolly-necked storks. Red-Breasted bee-catchers hop from branch to branch, while Abyssinian Rollers saunter aimlessly among the blighted grasses.

It’s delightful!

But birds are not the only wildlife about. There are also countless Duiker (small, horned, skittish deer-like creatures) who scour the grounds for fallen leaves. Plus they just got a baby Bush Buck which I’m told will grow to be larger than the Duiker but shorter than an antelope.

One of the Duiker that lives here.

I love it here.

The staff is friendly. The food is amazing. And well... there’s also a pool. What a blessing! I can’t think of a better place to be as I stop and pray about my future.

I can’t imagine too many of you are planning on coming this direction. But if you do, I recommend staying at Safari Style. It’s the best!

Swiss Delights.

My first stop in Switzerland landed me in a stone railway station with arching windows and dozens of suitcases marching about like ants.

My train arrived two hours earlier than expected, and I wasn’t sure how to reach my friend. But since I was no longer in Europe (Switzerland opted out of the European Community years ago), I had to exchange some money and find a phone.

But once again I was in Swiss-German territory. Who would understand me?

If I had paid better attention in geography class, I would have known I could speak French to the locals but I didn’t. Instead I blabbered away in English.

Bea and Me in Basel.

It wasn’t until much later that I learned that Basel --Switzerland’s third largest city-- marks the spot where France, Germany, and Switzerland meet. As a result its locals are quite fluent in all three languages.

With time I found a phone, called my friend, and arranged where to meet. My dear friend and fellow Newlife graduate, Bèa, met me at the tram station with warm hugs; we dropped off my bags and immediately headed into the city center.

Basel has a beauty and tranquility that is hard to describe; its rich past bleeds through picturesque views of the Rhine; its worn, cobblestone steps hint at an antiquity full of lore.

We only had a few hours to catch up, so we set out at it with gusto. Bèa and I laughed and reminisced over pasta and pizza, then I sent her off to work while I tumbled into bed. She works nights.

The next morning, I climbed back aboard a train for Zurich where another Newlife graduate, Medea, met me with her 9-month-old belly. She’s due any day!

Meda and Andre near Zurich.

Together we laughed, took pictures, crocheted, and ate our way through her house. I kept hoping she’d deliver while I was there... but it didn’t happen.

Our time together was blissfully restful though, and I’ve come to realize that weary travelers and term preggos need about the same number of naps each day!        --I love naps!

The following day after visiting another amazing Christmas market in Zurich, I caught the last train of my trip.

Now I sit at my sister’s house in Geneva, sipping on my forth cup of coffee and listening to the house wake up on this sleepy Sunday morning.

An fun handmade Advent calender.

I love my sister and her family so much. What a blessing to come to a home where hugs are meted out liberally, and the conversation bounces from French to English in the blink of an eye.

Their home is laughter and joy, warmth and love. Thank you Jesus for giving me such a wonderful family and so many extraordinary friends! I’m blessed... so very blessed.

Next stop... Kenya.

I fly out in the morning. Please pray for traveling mercies. Thanks.

Hamburg.

I arrived in Hamburg as the sun was westering low on the horizon introducing me to a cold I’d long forgotten after my years in the tropics.

The sun set around 4 pm casting a pale gray over the city like a thread-bare shawl, allowing the unfamiliar chill to soak into my bones. But despite the frigid air, I was greeted with warm hugs and laughter as my friend, Stefanie, welcomed me to the city of her youth.

Stefanie and I first met over ten years ago when we both lived in Spain. We’ve kept in touch over the years, seeing each other as time and distance permits. Reconnecting with her after all this time was like stepping back in time.

The day I arrived, Stefanie still had a few hours to work; so I walked around the city. Once she got off, she drove me back to her place where I met her husband for the first time and got a better look at her pregnant belly.

She lives on a beautiful suburban street, but one that is still marked with war relics. Tucked between the off-white apartment buildings and mini-vans, sits a WWII bomb shelter. Gray and solid, it blends into all the other buildings on the street except for one thing --it’s windowless.

A square rock. A symbol of refuge. A fortress too strong to destroy.

Apparently dozens of such buildings dot the city. They were built to withstand direct bombs; they were built to last. Today, they serve no purpose... but are too expensive to dismantle.

A symbol of an era. An unmarked tombstone of the realities of war. 

Each time I passed it, images of frightened children and trembling mothers flashed through my mind.  What was it like to run for its shelter as the sirens wailed? Did its walls shake as they slept through the bombs?  What did they wake to find the next morning?

But my mind did not stray too long on such thoughts. Seventy years have effectively hid the scars of war beneath towering trees and neatly trimmed gardens.

Stefanie took the day off to show me around town, so we toured the city on bikes.

As we sped along the Upper Alster’s shores, Hamburg’s beauty unfolded before us. The skyline of boat sails and church spires spread from East to West.

Taking it in while dodging joggers and mutts dressed in tiny coats, proved to be challenging but totally worth it. The twenty-minute ride downtown was one of the most picturesque of my entire trip. We crossed canals, weaved through parks, and meandered along river shores.

When we reached the city center we wandered through various Christmas markets and caught up on the details of life. But by 3:30 pm the sun was already starting to fade; we had to head home or risk colder degrees.

Later that night Stefanie had a swimming class, so she suggested I join her but go to the thermal bath part. I happily agreed forgetting that nothing in the building would be in English.

It was challenging not having my translator with me. Which bathroom was female? Was this the woman’s changing locker or the men’s? I hesitated, chose a door, held my breath, and entered. I sighed audibly to learn I’d guessed right and put on my swimsuit.

I had to ask a handful of people before I found an English speaker who could tell me where the steam baths were. But when I did, I happily flipped-flopped my way toward them and sat down.

Once inside I was surprised to learn they add special aromas to them --chamomile and camphor. As I breathed in their essences I could feel my body relaxing on a cellular level. 

Afterward I returned to the pool for the jet streams which massaged my back. Then I saw a door with ‘Sauna’ written clearly next to it. It was the only word I understood, so I pushed open the door and entered. Suddenly 120 degrees of heat engulfed me, drawing me in like a hug. I breathed in shallow gasps and lay down, remembering Sudan.

A few minutes later two naked men entered and sat down.

I sat up in surprise and asked in English (the only language I could muster):
--“Is this the men’s sauna?”
The men hesitated in this foreign tongue, exchanged glances, but eventually answered me.
--“No. This is mixed sauna,” one stuttered in a stilted accent.
--“Really?” I asked trying to hide my shock, “Men and women share the saunas here?”
--“Yes.” More hesitant glances.
--“Oh,” I said flushing in confusion and lay back down.

But my mind could no longer relax; it raced round and round.
--Am I allowed to wear my bathing suit in here? I’m not about to strip naked... so why did I care? Were these guys as uncomfortable as I was...? What’s the big deal? It’s only naked men...

As a third naked man entered I closed my eyes tighter and concentrated on my breathing.
--What made white naked men any different than black naked men that I might see in Sudan?

But I couldn’t relax anymore; my skin was red as much from the blushing as the heat. So I decided to head back to the pool and leave the mixed saunas to the Germans.

Later when I shared my culture shock with my friend she laughed and reminded me that “this is Germany. People don’t worry about being naked here.”    

I laughed with her.
    --Yes. Clearly they don’t care at all!

Next on the agenda... Switzerland!

A Tale of Three Cities.

I woke up in Paris, stiff from the sleepless night train but excited to gaze once again on the city I love. Paris is different than the rest of France; it has a rhythm all its own.

Its splendor is found as much in the smoke-filled cafés with whirring espresso machines and buttery croissants as in the primped poodles leashed and parading down the promenade. Walking through Paris is akin to walking into a Renoir or Pissarro painting.

Paris is living art. Paris is art in life. Paris is the art of living.

But my goal in coming was not to see L’Arc de Triomphe or Le Tour d’Effel but to reconnect with my friend and his family.

I first met Steven at my first job in the States when I was still a zit-popping, overly opinionated, punk teenager. Since he had grown up in France as a missionary kid and I had just come back from France... we had lots to talk about. Admittedly, I did most of the talking.

Steven with his children.

He was one of the first Christians I’d ever met that I didn’t hate on the spot. His quiet and gentle witness had a powerful impact on me, and even though I would not confess Christ for several more years, I have never forgotten the ways God used him at that time in my life. Seeing him again after all this time has been a real treat.

Since I arrived on a weekday, he took the day off to show me around. But instead we spent the day eating and catching up. But just as before I did most of the talking. He is a gifted counselor, dropping jewels of wisdom into my chaos and pain. Plus, he worked two years in Africa and could truly understand the intricacies of life there. What a blessing to have such a friend!

Steven and Karine, his wife.

Later that day I got to meet his children and catch up with his wife, Karine. I’m thrilled to see how God has blessed him and to know that he is doing so well.

But the next morning I was on a train again. I slept my way through Belgium, markedly achy from my ever constant journey. Fortunately by the time I landed in Germany I was renewed. A dear friend I met in the Philippines greeted me with such warmth the blistery winter’s day seemed like summer. 

Kirsten and I laughed the night away, catching up on the details of life. Although we intended to go out and get to know her home town a bit, we ended up too engrossed in conversation to bother. Instead we talked until our eyelids drooped. What a joy to see her again!

Kirsten and me in Essen.

Early the next morning I was once again on a train --but this time heading to Berlin. Although it’s the first time I’ve visited this historic city, I wasn’t coming as a tourist. I came to meet a friend for the first time.

A while back a sweet German midwifery student named Ann-Jule contacted me on my blog. Her sweet encouragements have always been timely and Spirit filled; I needed to meet her.

When I told her I’d be coming her way, we arranged to meet in person. And although we are relative strangers, it didn’t feel that way. As we talked over a breakfast of ham, cheese, and creamy meat-salads, I was surprised to learn how similar our lives have been.

Ann-Jule and me in Berlin.

And later that evening she invited another midwifery student in her class for a classic German meal called Rollade and dumplings! We again spent the night chatting about all things birth and missions. What a blessing to make these new friends!

Now I’m on another train. This one takes me North to the city of Hamburg where I will meet up with Stefanie, a sweet friend I’ve known since my life in Spain.

Reconnecting with all these friends has been so... healing and restorative. I thank God for them.

Thank you for praying for me as I travel. My journeys are sometimes long but always worth it. I still have another three cities to visit this week. Please keep praying as God might lead. Thank you.

Night Train.

Because I am a bit of a last-minute-lucy when it comes to catching trains, I had to eat my dinner in the dining car as we chugged along from Pamplona to Paris. My toasted sandwich of Camembert and Jamón Serrano was the perfect end to a perfect stay in Spain. 

The dining car attracted other hungry, road-weary travelers; but once fed, easy laughter filled the room. A retired couple from Ireland regaled us with happy tales of their traveling woes. A young environmentalist with a lip ring joined in; her slight Spanish lisp was the only hint of her origin as we discussed the intricacies of her doctorate studies. Further down the bar, a long-haired Londoner and a timid Dutchman added their voices to the cacophony of laughter until I almost forgot to sleep.

When I returned to the cabin hours later the other ladies were already tucked in.

Before boarding the train, I had decided to indulge in a couchette (or bed) for the 13 hour trek. My previous night train experience in a reclining seat had left me exhausted.

Would a couchette provide the elusive sleep, I wondered. Well, it couldn’t hurt it.

When I first boarded the train, I met the three other ladies in my cabin --two doe-eyed American girls fresh out of University on a summer trip around Europe and a small entrepreneurial African woman from the Ivory Coast with more suitcases than space to put them.

The Americans were curiously timid; but the African was anything but! She oozed the familiar African warmth to the room, filling it to overflowing with laughter and noise. The Americans looked on her steady stream of accented French in amused confusion. They knew they were suppose to laugh but they couldn’t figure out why. What was the punch line?

I had to translate.

She repeated over and over again the outrageous misadventures of other night trains she’d endured. To her it was scandalous that the Italians allowed men and women to share cabins. It wasn’t so much the fact they were men... but when they took off their shoes you had to evacuate the room!

She attacked all topics with similar zest and humor making the small cabin large as a Broadway stage. Mixing blood-curdling tails of civic unrest in her beloved land with an uproarious re-enactment of a sleepless night due to a corpulent snorer she didn’t have the guts to kill in her sleep... although the thought crossed her mind after 8 hours of pitiless suffering.

Did any of us snore she asked?

We laughed politely and exchanged glances. Unsure if she was capable of killing us in our sleep if we dared to admit to such a crime, we quickly assured her that we were in a no-snore-zone. 

She wasn’t the only one to sigh of relief at the happy news.

So later that night when I climbed into bed, I was rocked to sleep with only the sound of wheels grinding steel rails.

Admittedly, I did not find the sleep I hoped for... but at least it wasn’t due to any snorers.

Retiro Retreat.

In the middle of Madrid sits a well manicured park called Retiro (which in Spanish means ‘retreat’). It’s several blocks long with a duck-filled lake in the center. On any given day dozens of love birds can be seen paddling out on this lake in rented boats, drinking up the beauty.

Each season of the year the park is beautiful, but the Fall brings a vibrant softness to it that is absolutely breathtaking.

As I strolled through its trimmed hedges, crunching orange leaves under my steps, my heart beat a little slower; my breathing slowed as well. The park lives up to its name. It’s a true retreat!

Among the sporadic joggers and baby strollers, sat gray-haired men in wrinkled suits reading the newspaper.

Crisp November light filtered through the autumn trees. Dogs ran and barked. Pigeons cooed and whirred. 



On this particular day, one side of the lake was being used to film a movie. Actors dressed in vintage clothing stood by idly while a beauty in a green hat rehearsed her lines. What film was it? I didn’t ask. Who were these stars? I didn’t recognize them. But it was fun nevertheless to watch the cameras roll and the paparazzi clicked off picture after picture.

As I moved on through the park I found a smaller pond with black swans swimming to the jazzy tunes of off-key trumpet players. Beside them sat a Mexican artist selling jewelry. His stuff was lovely but not to my taste; it was all too bulky.

Nevertheless, I wanted to buy something to remember this day and I hesitated over a ring. As we chatted, I complained my fingers were too big and he offered to make me a ring to order. I loved this idea and promptly drew out a design I had in my head. Five minutes later, this creative man made it into a reality.

The Mexican artist who made my ring.

I waved goodbye and headed off happily to eat on the monument steps. My sandwich was great but my cake attracted wildlife. A dozen sparrows and one shy pigeon approached cautiously to see if I would share.

They were so familiar with humans I was able to feed them by hand. Watching them perch on my fingertips to get more cake was delightful. But once it was gone, they were not nearly as interested in my apple.



In the end I didn’t stay long; the afternoon shadows were growing long.

So, I gathered my coat and bags and headed for the metro only to meet up with a handful of squirrels. Some were as friendly as the sparrows and sauntered right up to my toes in search of goodies.

One little fellow was particularly bold and after sizing me up decided to climb my leg. He clung to my jeans with determination while fixing his hazel-brown eyes squarely on mine. When he saw no nuts, he ran away as fast as he’d come.



The day in the park was wonderfully restful. What an excellent retreat!

And tonight I take the night train to Paris. Pray I have no snorers on my wagon! Thanks.

Viva Espagña!

Over the years many people have asked me of all the countries I’ve lived in which did I prefer. And always --without even the slightest hesitation-- I throw my arms in the air and shout “ESPAGNE!” This surprises most and they tend to ask why.

Estban and me enjoying tapas.

Why Spain?

Could it be the oaky wines and cured Manchego cheese?    
           -- Maybe.
Could it be the ready smiles and loud greetings in the streets, the metros, the shops?      -- It very well could be.
Could it be the warmth with which the Spanish embrace life and family?  
           -- Yes. That’s it.

But it’s more than that. Much more.

It’s the gray-headed men in slippers reading El Pais on a Tuesday mid-morning park bench. It’s the mothers strolling their newborns down the promenade at 2 in the morning for a little outing. It’s the passion with which futbol is discussed over café con leche and pan dulce.

Spain.

Flashbacks of sagebrush swept deserts and white sandy beaches flood my mind. The shrill laughter of children running in sleepy village streets still echo in my ears. Smokey pubs filled with suits and scarves screaming over bad 90’s music for their friends to order another round of tapas and vino.

This is Spain. And I love it.

Twice this week I’ve enjoyed the fun of friends in tapas bars. What a treat! Here are a few tapas we ordered. Yum!

Mojama de Atun

Chorizo de no se que... 

There were other kinds of tapas... but I ate them up before I remembered to take a picture! Ha!

Thanksgiving Impromptu.

This holiday week I find myself in Spain --lovely Spain.

Before coming I daydreamed about making a fancy Thanksgiving meal for my Madrileno friends. But as can be expected, I had no way of planning such an event while in transit.

So I resigned myself to a non-thanksgiving day. However, Tuesday morning I woke at my friend’s house to find myself with more than enough time to cook. I just needed to make sure they were willing to eat!     --It wasn’t a hard sell.

And a few hours later the three of us sat down to a turkey meal and laughed the night away.

I am so thankful for my friends all over the world. I’m so thankful for my family both far and wide. I’m so thankful for a day to stop and remember all of God’s blessings to us!

So to all those States-side (or elsewhere in the world) cooking pies and whipping up mashed potatoes today... here’s a quick shout out from Spain.   

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Fun little fact:
The word for ‘Thankful’ in Hebrew is yadah (pronounced: yä dä) which comes from the root word meaning to throw, cast, or shoot.

Enter His gates with thanksgiving and into his courts with praise:
be thankful unto Him, and bless His name.
                                            --Psalm 100:4

As I read this verse I imagine believers throwing praises to God, casting love His way, and shooting darts of thankfulness to Him. Shout, O’ Nations! Shout out your thanks to Him alone. For He blesses and blesses and blesses again!

What Accent?

My time in France was short but wonderful. But then again, it’s always wonderful to be in a country that values cheese so much.

Tome de chèvre! Gruyère! Roquefort!
        -- Delicious.

But more than anything it’s a country and a people that are dear to my heart. I love their wild hair and ‘go-get-stuffed’ attitude. I admire their passion for food, friends, and foreign policy --typically in that order. I chuckle as I hear them ‘râlent’ (pronounced rah-LE) at the smallest inconvenience; it’s the soundtrack of France.

France understands me... never mind the accent!

And despite my foreign passport a few years back, dear friends made me a little bit more French by naming me “maraine” (aka: godmother) of their brown-eyed babe.

My dear friends, Luc & Estelle with my godson, Manoh!

He’s also dear to my heart and I had to go see him... and them, of course! This took me on a quick stop to the French Riviera.

Le Côte D’Azur (as the French call it) is miles of stoney beaches lined in pink plastered hotels selling beach chairs and overpriced lobsters. Year round beautiful people come to walk the promenade and gaze upon other beautiful people.

Basically it’s a mini-California... but with really great cheese!

Honestly Le Côte hasn’t changed much over the years. There is still a delicate taste of salt in the air and unseasonably warm breezes that envelop you in whiffs of bougainvillea and rosemary.

I remember this smell well as I lived on the coast almost 10 years ago while working with a church called Calvary Chapel Nice. Although I stayed just 9 months, they are months of powerful memories and experiences.

Pastors of CCNice, Pierre and Nancy Petrignani

And this weekend I was able to go back and reconnect with many of them. What a blessing to see all that God has been doing in and through them. It was startling to see how much had changed... but also what has not.

What a blessing to have been able to catch up with such great friends... and reminisce!

If you want the translation, look up Revelation 8:4

Next stop... Spain.

Milanese Charm

 

My wonderful French parents!

As many of you may have guessed by now, I’m on break. I’ve decided to take this break in Europe again to catch up with old (and new) friends.

I started my journey in Italy where my French parents and I traipsed through the cobblestone streets of Milan looking for the Scala theater and the Duomo cathedral.

The Scala is one of Europe’s oldest opera theaters. Its crimson cushioned seats stack in a neat half-circle facing the stage. Its halls have heard the world’s finest voices; the echo of their memory hangs in the air.

The Scala theater.

Although we were unable to get tickets to see a show, we were able to enjoy its museum where Lizt’s piano sits next to a bust of Rossini and a portrait of Callas hangs beside encased props from operas gone by.

The Duomo cathedral.

The Duomo is a neo-gothic cathedral that took several hundred years to build. They started it in the 1300s but never really declared it finished. With reportedly over 3400 statutes and roughly 200 spires, this cathedral stands out as a modern beauty. Remarkably it has all of its original stain-glass work and its rose-tinted marble facade has recently been scrubbed.

We were able to climb the 250 stairs to the marbled rooftop and gaze out over the city. Its rosy glow at sunset took my breath away.

Italy --this enchanting land of miniscule espressos and parmesan-drenched pasta!-- this mystic city of bustling fog-coated fashionistas!-- this modern beauty rooted firmly in the past!

How to describe her elegance and charm?

Milan --though once famous for her music and art-- is now mostly known for her fashion. Large windows with sharply dressed mannequins line the streets. Clothed in intricately-knit wool dresses too fine to wear, these muted ladies stare on.

Oddly enough in Italy as winter fast approaches, fashionistas have painted themselves in dreariness. Everywhere I looked, blacks and browns in over-sized sunglasses stomped through the streets. A quick turn of the head and a sea of charcoal grays undulated past.

Before living in the wild yellows and florescent greens of Africa, I never realized the bleak palate  of Europe’s most chic. What of color and life? What of vibrant patterns and geometric designs?

Gone.

Instead a sorrowful array of muted tones parade through neo-gothic marbled streets while well-worn gargoyles watch on.

These overcast colors need a bit of Sudanese inspiration... or maybe just I do.

Next on the agenda... France!

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.