MMXII

The year 2012. It's been on your mind whether you know it or not. Hollywood's been obsessed with it lately. Indiana Jones had to return the proverbial (a) crystal skull to the metaphysical aliens by the year 2012. According to the film, he accomplished the task in 1957. Whew. Just in time. In the year 2012, everyone will turn into zombies. Thank goodness we have Will Smith to blow himself up for no good reason. Even "Death Race" was meant to take place after the economy collapses in 2012... but wait... that already happened (b). As usual, for anyone who didn't already get the 2012 message, Hollywood is poised to slap us all in the face with it. Currently set for release are two major films that are just called "2012". That's it - no equivocation. Well, almost none. The first is Columbia pictures release "2012", which comes out today. Most of us have seen the trailers. The second, Warner Brothers' "2012: The War for Souls" will debut sometime in early 2010. These are only the most notable of over 20 films on the subjects in various stages of production between 2007 and 2011. This is in keeping with the 4th Law of Thermodynamics, which states that competing production companies must always produce at least 2 films on the same topic simultaneously (c). I'll forego a rant about disaster movies - because that's been beaten like a dead horse riding a tidal wave inside a tornado on the surface of an asteroid hurdling towards an angry volcano - and instead focus on the 2012 issue itself.

December 21, 2012 marks the end of the Mayan calendar. That's right. All this commotion stems from the culmination of a calendar developed by an ancient civilization that is all but extinct, save a handful of distant modern relatives. The Maya were very advanced mathematicians and astronomers, accounting for a very complex and accurate calendar system. Does it exist within the realm of possibility that, due to their advancements, they were able to pinpoint the date of the end of the world (a task no civilization since has matched or understood)? Sure, it's possible. Here's another scenario that exists within the realm of possibility: Jesus came to visit the Maya and said "Hey guys, I've got a chosen people and all, and I'm going to give most of my divine revelation to them, but I wanted you guys to be the first to know that the end of the world is going to happen on December 21st, 2012. Mark your calendars!" Ridiculous, but just as likely as the idea that an ancient civilization accurately predicted the end of the world. What's more likely is that the Mayan calendar is based on cycles of time (d), and December 21, 2012 just happens to be the end of one cycle. Either that, or the Mayans got tired of counting. You'd get burned out too if it was your job to make day planners for the next 5125 years.

A little Mayan calendar 101: The Maya essentially had 4 calendars. The Tzolk'in calendar was a 260 day cycle upon which most of the Mayan sacred days and religious events were based. The Haab calendar was a 365 day cycle drawn from astronomical research. It featured twenty 18-day months, and a period of 5 "nameless" days at the end of the year. A third calendar which we know as the "calendar round" constitutes the Mayan method of counting years. Neither of the shorter calendars did this, but every 52 Haab years, the Tzolk'in new year would fall on the same day, and because this cycle was a decent approximation of Mayan life expectancy, it also served as a good method of following generational history. The calendar in question - the one that "foretells" our fateful year of 2012 - is known as the Mesoamerican Long Count Calendar. It begins in correspondence with the creation date of Mayan mythology, August 11, 3114 BC, and ends on December 21, 2012 AD. Yes, it is within reason to conclude that 2012 would mark the destruction date of Mayan mythology if 3114 BC marked the creation date. But it is MORE within reason to conclude that, because the Maya viewed time as cyclical, they would expect a new cycle to begin. There's even evidence that suggests the Maya believed there to have been another cycle before their mythological creation date.

What does this all mean for us? Nothing. Well, maybe we'll be goaded to the theater a few times to see a handful of poorly written, yet mildly entertaining movies. But other than that, nothing. Yes, I'm among the throngs of movie-goers (e) who will probably go see "2012". Maybe I'll get to see John Cusack die. Something tells me that, though the world and all of humanity pass away, yet Cusack will live on. And some lucky girl will get to be the one with whom he (f) repopulates the Earth. Also, the trailers have me all excited about seeing that tidal wave coming over the Himalayas harder than the People's Liberation Army. Who knew that it would be water, and not China, that would finally level Nepal (g)? And I've got money riding on the Golden Gate Bridge as the first US landmark to go down in the movie (h). Disaster movies treat the Statue of Lilberty and the Golden Gate Bridge like unwanted stepchildren. The Statue gets taken out behind the woodshed in "Cloverfield", "Planet of the Apes", "AI", "Ghostbusters 2", "Independence Day", "X-Men", "Deep Impact", "The Day After Tomorrow", and "Knowing". The Bridge gets a thumping in "It Came from Beneath the Sea", "Superman the Movie", "Deep Impact", "Invasion of the Body Snatchers", "Earthquake", "The Core", and the instant classic "Mega Shark Versus Giant Octopus", and it very nearly meets its end in the new "Star Trek" movie, as well as "A View to a Kill" and "The Rock". Mostly, however, I'm looking forward to the personal hope that this movie will inspire within me. Not a hope in the ability we have as humans to overcome tragedy. Not the hope that I will outlive civilization, and our planet itself. Not even a hope that some day, in the midst of dire circumstances, I'll meet a girl and fall in love, happily thinking of the great life we'd have together if the world wasn't literally falling apart beneath our feet. The hope I'm hoping for is the hope that one day, as a middle-aged white male, I may be professionally insignificant enough, average-looking enough, and - with some practice - charmingly quirky enough that the world may turn to me in its hour of greatest need. I may require assistance from an incredibly likable, highly skilled black man with an endless supply of witticisms, but like Nicholas Cage, Jeff Goldblum, or John Cusack (i), I will have my moment in the sun (j). Yes, the world will turn to me in its hour of need. I will say to the world "Whoops. Let's try that again, shall we?"

Footnotes:

a. - No. There isn't a proverb.

b. - Jason Statham was played by Secretary Paulson.

c. - i.e. Volcano vs. Dante's Peak, Armageddon vs. Deep Impact, and (inexplicably) 43 different films about penguins.

d. - It's likely because the Mayan calendar is based on cycles of time.

e. - i.e. sheep

f. - or maybe Morgan Freeman if she's not so lucky

g. - Apparently the Mayans knew.

h. - Odds:

The Statue of Liberty 2-5

The Golden Gate Bridge 1-1

The Hollywood Sign 3-2

The Empire State Building 2-1

The Washington Monument 9-2

The White House 5-1

The Seattle Space Needle 8-1

Mount Rushmore 20-1

The Alamo 50-1

Canada 85-1

The Eiffel Tower (at The Paris Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas) 100-1

i. - Or, if I lack enough personality to have quirks but make up for it with mild good looks, Keanu Reeves.

j. - Hopefully, my disaster movie will not involve the explosion of the sun, and hence, my moment in the sun will be figurative, and not literal.

Nasal Selection

Sunday marked the one year anniversary of my broken nose, and I've been thinking: I may be able to single-handedly (or single-nosedly) prove or disprove the theory of evolution by natural selection.

The Peppered Moth resides in England. During the industrial revolution, there transpired an interesting phenomenon which has been cited as evidence for evolution over time on the basis of natural selection. This moth occurs in two varieties - light ("typica") and dark ("carbonaria"). Before the industrial revolution, the whiter specimens were more common and more prosperous because they blended more seamlessly with the light-colored trees in the area, and the birds that fed on them had a harder time finding them. The darker moths were easier targets. When the industrial revolution arrived, the heavy smoke that poured from nearby factories gradually began to turn the trees darker. After only a few short years, the carbonarias became the more prosperous variety because they now held the upper wing in terms of blending in with the soot-darkened trees. In years since, as industry has become cleaner, the lighter moths are again becoming more common. The idea is that the species evolved, generation by generation, according to what was the most profitable adaptation. Isn't it also possible, however, that the two types of moths had always lived side-by-side, and until recently, the white guys just had an easier time of it? (Kinda smacks of something else... history. The industrial revolution was just moth civil rights.) I'm not an expert, but the facts just don't seem to support the conclusion.

If and when I have children, I may be able to solve this dilemma once and for all. As the moths have naturally occurring camouflage that helps them to avoid predation, many animals have naturally occurring traits that are designed to help them find mates. Of course, it is profitable to be well-suited to find yourself a mate; your species will not survive without the ability to do so. When examined under the natural selection paradigm, creatures ought to adapt to produce whatever qualities will make them most attractive. It's no secret that, in the human world, physical beauty is a major factor. A symmetrical face tends to be a big part of that (it's a good thing that Adrian Brody can act). My nose once pointed significantly to one side - a trait I inherited from my father. If you look at pictures of us before my surgery, you will note that our noses were remarkably similar. The same characteristic nose is shared by several other men on my dad's side of the family. Now, due to my surgery, my nose is almost perfectly straight. This is not to say that I have become a beacon of hotness, but by one of the most traditional standards of physical beauty, I am now more attractive. I have adapted. If natural selection works as theory suggests, then my kids will share this adaptation, and the survival of our species will be furthered. Will natural selection ring true? Will Darwin be right? Or will I have to impose rhinoplasty upon my children? Will I be the missing link in the evolution of the Payne men? We'll have to wait for a while, but I doubt it. Sorry, Charlie.

Favorites from Africa

So, at long last, photos. Enjoy.

Carrying bananas and water.

Faustin, the modern man.

In the textile section of the Ruhengeri market.

The church in Ruhengeri.

Sunday morning.

Tom Wilson, one of the pastors attending the conference.

The typical method of cargo transport in Rwanda.

Pastor Thomas.

Stephen Mbogo in the schoolhouse for the foster kids.

Peering through the wall of the Mbogos' church in the Nairobi slums.

Kids in the slums.

A girl at the wedding celebration we attended.

Stoic and fashionable.

People watching in Limuru, Kenya.

En route to Bungoma, Kenya.

Yet another factor contributing to the bumpy road.

Harvesters near Bungoma.

Dusty travelers.

A graduate from the literacy program in Bungoma and her baby.

The local pastor in Bungoma.

Waiting for the graduation ceremony to start.

Waiting for the graduation ceremony to end.

A happy Bungoma family.

Someone's not watching the puppet show.

Playing in the maize.

Time Travel

I am from the future. Well, I'm not really from the future, but I am returning from having visited the future. 10 hours into the future, to be exact. For the past two weeks, I have been experiencing life 10 hours in advance of most of you. I see the sun 10 hours earlier. I eat dinner around the time most of you are eating breakfast. When your watch says 8:27, and the birds are chirping, mine says 6:27, and the mosquitos are out. Also, the humans are dead, and everyone dances either the robot, or the robo-boogie.

Talk about time-travel. I think I know what it feels like to be an astronaut in one of those movies where they freeze themselves or enter into hibernation for years and years while the spaceship travels on auto-pilot to a distant galaxy 100 light years away. When they get there, they will not have aged at all, and yet everyone they know back home on Earth will be dead and gone. Not that I expect you all to be dead and gone upon my return. It's just that I feel like I've been frozen in time for hours and hours on this bloody plane. It's not so much traveling through time as it is traveling over time. I left Eldoret early this morning for a 6 hour bus ride to Nairobi. Upon arriving in Nairobi, we got in a taxi for a 2.5 hour ride to the airport that would have taken 20 minutes if it hadn't been for the traffic. Then, the first of three flights. It's 9 hours from Nairobi to Amsterdam, 9 more hours from Amsterdam to Detroit, and 5 hours from Detroit to LA. Including a total of at least 8 hours of waiting in between the bus, the taxi, and each flight, by the time I land, I will have spent at least 40 hours traveling. I wonder which planet I will be on when this spaceship finally arrives.

I've been thinking about how different life would be knowing exactly what the next 10 hours would look like. Stress would drop significantly. I would never miss a sweet photo opportunity. In fact, I would never miss a sweet photo opportunity anywhere in the world within 10 hours of where I am. I would know what you're going to say before you say it, and I would CRUSH at poker. I would know when Jesus is coming, and just pray really hard, read the bible, and feed homeless people for 10 hours before He gets here. All in all, I would be way cooler. But it would stink. All of the beautiful things about life would be eradicated. No more mystery. No more discovery. No more reason for hope. In Africa, the experience of the present is enhanced, because it's more difficult, and more futile, to anticipate the future. Nothing goes as planned, so why plan? You really do discover more when you're not thinking about the next thing. Wherever you go, there you are. I doubt that abundant life was meant to be characterized by always knowing what happens next. So why do we try so hard to ensure that there are never any surprises? Living moment to moment means allowing someone else - someone bigger - to be in charge of the next moment. That's abundant life. Knowing the future isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Yet I really do feel like I'm returning from the future. Not 10 hours, but 10 years into the future. Over the last two weeks, I have seen what my life could be like - what I hope it will be like - with God's blessing. I have discovered not only new places on the globe, but new places within my heart. I have lived not only in the community of the world, but in the community of the Kingdom of God. I have been a servant, and I have been served. I have seen the potential that life can hold when it is full of God. Now I am returning to life as I have known it, and in a way, I am going back in time. Back to familiar work. Back to familiar play. Back to my bed, my car, my stuff. Back to traffic, back to parking tickets, back to letters from the IRS. I am going back to the life I know and leaving behind the life I hope to know - or am I leaving it ahead?. Though I am going back, I am not going all the way back. When I return to the present day, it will be two weeks later, and that means I don't have to return precisely to where or when I was when I left. With God's help, I can retain some of this future life, and continue to live it. I don't have to trade hope realized for hope to come. I can live with a little bit of the future in my back pocket, and a flux capacitor in my head. I can bring a hoverboard back to 1985. It shouldn't require a trip to the future to head in that direction.

Turbulence

"You know, toast?" She looked at me like I was an alien, speaking another language, and asking for something unheard of (all of which were true). "Can you toast the bread?" I made the international hand gesture for toast, which is a flat palm, with the back of your hand to the other person, with your elbow up in the air, plunging downward repeatedly to signify toast sliding into a toaster. It can't have been too tall an order, because I have had toast in other places. I know that they know what it is. I had one slice of brown bread on my plate. Quite spontaneously, as if struck with sudden inspiration after not listening to me at all, she snapped into action. She snatched the slice of bread off of my plate, grabbed three other slices, and darted into the kitchen. "But I only wanted one piece." I mumbled after her. She didn't return for some time, so I began to peruse the other breakfast options. They did have french toast, which I hadn't yet seen in Africa, even in Rwanda, where they even speak french. Yet, here in Nowhereville, Kenya (Eldoret is Swahili for "Nowhereville"), they had french toast. It looked more like country fried steak, but because I also happen to like country fried steak, I decided to try it. They weren't lying. French toast. The girl appeared some 10 minutes later with my regular toast. Four slices, just for me. I buttered only one, and ate it with my omelet.

The comically giant Barack Obama tapestry that had been hanging on the wall in the dining room last night is no longer there. I was really looking forward to taking a picture of it. Kenya is as excited about him as the United States seems to be, and I think that might say a little something about where he really comes from.... Instead, there is a small acrylic replica, nicely framed, of a quaint little waterfall scene - hanging sideways. Correct me if I'm wrong, but water still falls down along the equator, right?

I have found it astonishingly difficult to maintain a worshipful attitude for the past several hours. We'll say I've been choleric. Irritated, infuriated, and irate are also adequate descriptors. It began when I boarded the bus to head back to Nairobi. I was already apprehensive about a 6 hour bus ride, but I felt a little better knowing I had a window seat. At least the ride would not be as long as it had been two days ago, and taking pictures really helps pass the time. Only I sat down to find that my window seat was in the only row of seats on the bus with a view obscured by the giant decal stuck to the outside. Instead of sitting next to beautiful views of Africa, I was going to have to sit next to the inside of a giant red window sticker for 6 hours. I discovered that I could recline my seat and get a little bit of a view, so maybe there would be some pictures after all. But the road has had other plans. The ride has been so turbulent that at least 4 of every 5 pictures don't turn out. Ceiling shot. Seat shot. Giant red window sticker shot. Scenery! Ceiling shot. The road is paved, although I'm hesitant to refer to it as a road. I think I'd call it a 400 mile long series of really bad potholes. Strangely enough, all of the speed bumps seem to be in perfect working condition, and they are abundant. Especially when nearing any type of settlement, it's rare to go for more than a minute without hitting a speed bump, and they are usually in sets of three, about three feet apart. It's just asinine that there are so many speed bumps on a road that is essentially comprised of speed bumps. Where there are no potholes, the ride isn't any better, because the asphalt is laid out so lumpy that you can't tell the difference from inside. You have to concentrate really hard to scratch your nose without poking yourself in the eye, and napping is impossible. Although miraculously, some people still manage to sleep, miraculously, like Jesus on a stormy sea. If you've ever been on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland - which is wonderful fun for 3 minutes - then you'll have an idea of what this ride is like for 6 hours. I don't remember it being this bad on the way up. Either the other side of the road is smoother, or I had a better attitude about it then. Probably the latter. So it's a good thing that they're re-paving the road.

Except it's not a good thing. Re-paving means we're forced to drive off of the already abhorrent road for hours on end over the rocks and dirt. This is worse than driving on the road (although you could make a pretty good case either way). And then there's the bus itself, which is a roving dungeon of annoyances. It squeaks all the time. They ought to just dowse the whole thing in WD-40. With every bump, the roof emits the same sound produced by sheet metal when you bang on it, or hold it from both ends and shake it. So it sounds like there's a constant thunderstorm overhead. Of course the squealing brakes - which are used frequently - are the worst. I've never taken a power drill to my temple, but I'd imagine that the experience is similar, and I must admit that if I had a power drill on hand, I'd be contemplating it. At one point, we hit a bump so hard, that it must have thrust Faustin upward into his fastened seat belt, because he immediately took it off. For the next five minutes, the loose seat belt clanged repeatedly on his seat until I just couldn't take it anymore. Assuming control of the one irritation that I could immediately remedy, I reached over the guy sitting next to me, across the aisle and one row in front of me, snatching the belt and tucking it over the arm rest of Faustin's seat. The relief was immediate, albeit temporary. Similarly, whenever we strike that rare patch of smooth pavement, I feel a physical sense of release. My whole body relaxes. This is nice in the moment, but it's not a good thing. To relax is the worst thing you can do, because it means that at the next bump, you will be tossed like a rag doll into the window. I will not be surprised if I find bruises on my right shoulder and elbow tomorrow. The turbulence is simply maddening, and I'm not even on a plane yet. Hey, at least I will be - for 22 hours - after we get to Nairobi. Yippee.

Signage

I love signs. I love what they represent, and I love when they are poorly conceived. Slogans too. Paradise is a sign with a slogan (hey, I'm easy to please). In foreign countries, humorous signs abound, especially when the natives are attempting English. Naturally, Kenya is no exception. It's clear that they go to great lengths to come up with catchy names and slogans for display, but their lack of familiarity with our language just comes up comical. I'm sure that if I tried to display my name and slogan in Swahili, I'd look a bit foolish too. I take pictures of signs left and right. They're not good pictures, by any stretch, but they have interesting and humorous content. Often they wind up getting deleted in order to make space for other pictures that are actually worthy of display, so I can't be too certain which ones I've managed to keep. I can't help but wonder what it would mean to take the proprietors at their word for many of these. "Happy Emporium". It looked like they just had furniture, but it's fun to entertain the idea that inside is a magical world like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory (or Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, which most of you are probably less familiar with). "Promise Shop" where, apparently, you can purchase little pieces of assurance. "The White House". The fact that it wasn't completely white clearly indicates that affairs of state must be under deliberation within those walls. "Computer Support: We Trust in God". I assume that, when having computer trouble in Africa, maintaining a healthy trust in God is about all you can do about it. Even large institutions like the Kenya Cooperative Bank are not immune. Their slogan is "We Are You." Uh, I beg to differ. I'm sure that many Kenyans would too. How many of us, even in Africa, truly find our identity in our financial institution?

It seems that every shack on the side of the road in the most rural parts of Kenya claims to be either a cafe, hotel, or butchery. These makeshift, miniature log cabin lean-tos clearly don't have the facilities to heat up coffee, let alone offer lodging for any wayward travelers. Most of them are funny just for this reason alone, but a few have the intestinal fortitude to give themselves names. In their defense, most of the establishments with names longer than "hotel" or "cafe" are made out of concrete, but that's about the only difference I could see. There was the "Metropolitan Hotel" which boasted that it was "A Resort Hotel for - Lords." In addition to the ridiculous appeal to royalty, I'm not sure where the dash comes from. Maybe Emily Dickinson wrote their slogan. I never did have much confidence in her anyway. We passed an establishment called "Caravan Hotel/Butchery". Stay at your own risk. Upon seeing "Imani Butchery", I laughed aloud. "Imani" means "faith" in Swahili, so pray a lot before you go buy your meat, and you'll just have to trust that it is what they say it is. My favorite, however, was "Dolphin Butchery". I really wanted to go in and ask if their dolphin was tuna safe. Even churches are suspect. In downtown Nairobi, you'll find the "Nairobi Happy Church". Don't you just feel better already? And the best? "Kingdom Fellowship: The Church ON Purpose". At least we can surmise that they really really mean it, although I'm not sure what that says about the rest of us who just tripped and fell into the church.

The most overwhelming form of signage, however, is found painted or taped onto the side doors and back windows of the taxis. These nissan mini-busses are all basically the same, white with yellow stripes down the sides, but they are all decorated to the hilt, and each one has a name in the back window. "Bomber." "Queen Liza". "Storm Over Paradise". "Neptune". "Where the HOOD At?" (check the front of the car, knucklehead). Many of them are spiritually themed. "Priesthood". "Psalms 150". "God's Timing" (I'm definitely in favor of God's timing, but I'd still like to get there with some degree of expediency, thanks). Ed said that this is also common in the Philippines, where they plaster scripture and spiritual jargon on their cabs as a superstition, apparently to ward off evil spirits. We wondered if the same was true here. At the very least, I presume that the names on the back windows have very little real, impactful meaning to the drivers.

Signs are interesting that way. Their intended nature is the denotation of a larger principle or idea. Yet, we lose the larger meaning so often. Words are signs too. When I say "platypus", it signifies something to you whether your mental image of a platypus is correct or not. In Bungoma today, there was a troupe of youngsters (Would it be a pack? A pod? A gaggle?) that followed me around obsessed with calling out, "Howahyoo! Howahyoo!" Any time I would respond, "I'm fine, thanks, how are you?" they would simply continue their chant. They had no idea what it meant. After a while, I caved, and just repeated it back to them. They literally said it over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, until it just became white noise in the background while I was engaged conversation or picture taking. Cute. Annoying, but cute.

We do that, don't we? We lose meaning all the time. Many of our signs no longer signify anything to us. In fact, I think our guilt is greater, because we used to know what the signs meant, and lost the meaning out of simple repetition, rather than out of ignorance. We gloss over signs just like you glossed over all of those "over and overs" I typed. The words stopped being language to you, didn't they? They became pattern. (It's ok, you can go back and read each and every one just so you can tell me later that you did.) How many times have you responded "Fine thanks, how are you?" when someone has only greeted you with "Hello"? No longer do we need even a chorus of "Howahyoo!" to be prompted to our conditioned, robotic responses. The divide between those children and us is smaller than we'd like to admit. And we wonder why religion doesn't work for us. We wonder why we still feel empty after we go to church, pray, read the Word, and take communion over and over and over again. Stop. When you engage in something meaningful, take time to notice. That's relationship. Any relationship can become ritualistic, but when you're mindful of what you're doing, and who with, you'll find that meaning remains fresh. Not only fresh, but new. If you're still having trouble, I recommend a trip to Africa.

Fishing

"Is this even possible?" I ask, only somewhat under my breath. Martha chuckles. We're lost. There's one - and only one - road from Eldoret to Bungoma. We didn't go the wrong way. Yet we're stopping to ask for directions. Of course I wouldn't have known either way, but I figured that between Faustin, Salome, Pelagie, and our cab driver (who lives in this area), someone ought to have a cursory knowledge of the road. Or at least enough knowledge to get us from one town to the next on the one road between them. We turned around and headed back the other direction. We had gone too far, but we hadn't passed through any town large enough to be Bungoma. yet we didn't go the wrong way from Eldoret. The only explanation I can conceive of turns out to be true. The part of Bungoma we were looking for involves turning off on a side street into the heart of the town. I didn't remember the turn from yesterday, but then again, the first time we made the turn, I was probably asleep, and the second time, it was dark, raining, and we were going 60+ miles per hour. Yet, I was the first one to start recognizing landmarks from our walk to the hotel we didn't stay at. I mentioned to Martha, "I remember that mill from yesterday. The hotel is just up that road on the right." I could have guided us back there if we were trying to get there. But wait a moment. As it turns out, we were trying to get there. Oh well. Another opportunity to be cool slips through my fingers.

We picked up the local pastor and his wife at the hotel, and traveled to the church. Talk about the heart of town. A handful of women were graduating from a literacy program that Salome directs (another one of her many talents/responsibilities that I was unaware of). Women in Bungoma are trained not only to read, but also in the area of micro-finance, so that they can run small businesses (mostly selling produce). The Love of Christ Fellowhip Church in Bungoma is made out of mud. The walls are mud. The floor is mud. The surrounding area is mud. And it rained yesterday. Fortunately, most of it was pretty dry, and the puddles were avoidable. We were a bit late (a combination of Faustin and I having to walk all over Eldoret to find a place to change money, the need to stop and buy Bibles as gifts for the women graduating, and getting lost), but Faustin assured us that "They will wait for us, because we are the master of ceremonies." The little church building was full of mostly women, most of whom have been widowed by AIDS. They were worshipping when we arrived, and the graduation ceremony began soon thereafter. Veronica, the pastor's wife and an instructor for the women, spoke first, followed by Salome. They received their certificates and their bibles, and Faustin closed. Then the kids.

They were multitudinous. Martha and Pelagy put on a puppet show for them while I roamed around taking pictures. Several of the younger ones followed me around, completely ignoring the activities of their peers. Typically, the younger the child, the more likely he or she is to be completely enamored with me. The older the child, up to about 13, the more likely he is to try and stare me down. The setting in Bungoma was what I had in mind when I envisioned the generic small African town. The mud huts in combination with the dirty ground, the haphazard clothing, the frequency of farm animals, and the abundance of children feel like Africa should feel to an American. And yet, in my preconceptions, I never envisioned a graduation ceremony for women who have completed a literacy program. It's just not what comes to mind when you think about rural Africa. But it is what is needed. Perhaps that's part of the problem. When we think about these parts of the world, the first things to come to mind are obvious. They're poor. They have disease. They need food, clothing, and shelter. What is invaluable, however, is the ability to read, and to think for and support themselves. This program not only allows these widowed women to become more established and increase their abilities to provide for themselves and their families, but it also equips them to study the Word of God. That is the ultimate need. You can give a man a fish, and he is fed for a day, or you can teach a man to fish and he is fed for a lifetime. We've been doling out fish for a long time now. Let's listen to Faustin and Salome, and head over there with rods and lures.

Control

Martha and I waited at the bus station for 45 minutes, only to discover that Faustin, Salome, and Pelagy had been waiting for us for 30 minutes in a different part of the bus station. Martha Garcia joined us a day ago. She is the daughter of Faustin's supervisor at Biola in the foreign languages department (Faustin teaches a French class). She is a young army officer with a heart for the Lord and for kids, and now that Ed has taken off for Malawi, it's nice to have another American as a part of our group. Martha and I decided to just sit in the waiting room and let them find us, because we figured that we'd be a little easier to find than they would be. Then the busses started to board. "Uh... little help please?" Of course they found us, African style (i.e. in the nick of time), and our fears were alleviated. When we got on the bus, I wasn't quite sure what to expect. 8 hours is a pretty long ride. Would I have chickens in my lap and pigs at my feet? Would there be 50 poor travelers shouting at each other in many languages I don't understand? Would we have to stop every 10 minutes to push a herd of wildebeest off of the road? Somewhat to my dismay, the answers were all "No." The Easy Coach line is about as posh as it gets in Africa. Basically a tour bus. They wouldn't have allowed livestock on board, there were 50 people on board, but they were all pretty quiet, and we didn't really stop for anything... for 8 hours. There was one 20 minute stop and one 10 minute stop. Lunch was a pack of chocolate chip muffins. About an hour and a half before we got to our first stop, nature was on the phone for me. I asked Faustin how long we'd have before a stop. "We have continue for 45 minutes or we could have to travel for an hour." I thought I could hold it. 45 minutes later, I discovered that we were still at least a half an hour away. Nope. Not going to happen. Faustin graciously asked the driver to stop, and I dashed out into the African wilderness, not knowing what perils awaited me behind those bushes. I was relieved (I know, I know, ha ha ha) to find when I got back on the bus that I had not been the only one. A teenage girl came running back to the bus shortly after I had returned to my seat. I don't really get embarrassed, and even if I did, I'm usually too cool to find myself in embarrassing situations, so this would definitely have to appear on a top 10 list of my most embarrassing moments. Speaking of embarrassing moments, we did pass a herd of zebras, and I was too slow with my camera to get a shot of them. I had my camera pointed out the window for about 7 hours and 45 minutes, and in the 15 minute window that I wasn't ready to go, of course we pass zebras. We arrived in Bungoma, Western Kenya, and walked through town to our hotel. And I missed the zebras. I was painfully aware of the fact that I had no control over the 8 hour bus ride, nature's call, and the appearance of zebras. I missed the zebras.

"We cannot stay here." Faustin confirms what the rest of us already knew. "Here" was the Hotel Tourist, Bungoma. Well, I didn't know we couldn't stay, because it's Africa, and who knows where you'll stay on any given night, but I had a pretty good hunch. "The rooms are not very accommodating, there is no window in the bathroom, and I can hear some bad smell." I would have to agree with him. Actually, to say that the rooms weren't accommodating was a significant understatement, the lack of a window wasn' that the bathroom was lacking a view, it's that it was lacking a pane of glass (so when you stood in the bathroom, the rain gave you a shower whether you liked it or not), and the smell was bad enough that I think I could hear it too. So we have to go somewhere else. The trouble is, that the next somewhere else is 2 hours away. And it's raining. It's really raining (so that hole in the bathroom wall gave you a shower whether you liked it or not). In Limuru, we had a drizzle, but this is different. I should have saved "The Wet Season" as a title for this entry. Not only is the next somewhere else 2 hours away, but it's two hours back in the direction that we have come from. And where we have come from is 8 hours away. So there's a bit of a fatigue factor. If we were anywhere else, I'd probably suggest another option, but here, I don't know what that would be, and it's already Africa, so flexibility is a bit of a must.

There's nothing like racing down a very poorly maintained, very slick road, very late at night in a very poorly maintained vehicle in a foreign country at 60+ miles per hour. Maybe I could think of a few things like that, but in a life that has been relatively adventure-packed, I've never done any of them. That's because those things are all really really dumb. Yet, that's what we were doing. I didn't have much say in the matter. It's amazing how being here in Africa heightens one's awareness that most of life is beyond personal control. Things rarely go as planned here.

So now we're staying in the Sirikwa hotel in Eldoret. This must be the nearest Kenyan approximation of the Ritz, even though it's in a town in the middle of nowhere, at least 2 hours from the next nearest town in the middle of nowhere. The food is as good as any I have had over the past two weeks. The shower is hot and the water pressure is good (I was beginning to think that, while in Africa, I had to choose either temperature or pressure, but never both). The beds are nice, the internet is free, and the TV has all three channels. Tomorrow morning, we will have to drive 2 hours back in the direction from which we came, but the morning after, our 8 hour bus ride will be only a 6 hour bus ride. It just goes to show you that sometimes you get blessed when life is beyond your control. Maybe we don't have to cling to it with knuckles quite so white.

Riches

(So I'm home. I've actually been home for over a day now, but jet lag and concentration don't exactly get along, and I just haven't been able to submit a new post. You may have figured out that my posts have all been a few days late. This is due to the infrequency and difficulty of internet access in Africa. My method has been to write ahead of time, and then post two or three entries at a time whenever there was opportunity. Hence, I have written a handful of entries from my last several days in Africa, and until now, haven't been able to post them. I'll spread them out over a couple of days so I'm not flooding the blog with a book's worth of posts all at once.)

Today, we visited Stephen and Rosemary Mbogo. They came to pick us up from our hotel early in the morning to drive us around to their various ministries. They are both Kenyan, and well educated in the US. Rosemary is currently working on her PhD (at Biola, I believe), and Stephen also has an advanced degree. They met very serendipitously. Over the course of about 2 months, they were both asked to speak at three separate conferences, independent of each other. After they kept running into each other, each seeing how the other had a great love for Christ, Stephen decided to pop the question. In Kenyan culture, dating is essentially courtship, and a man does not ask a woman to date unless he intends to marry her. They entered into an engagement, and the rest is history.

Our first stop was their foster home, Bygrace Academy. Several years ago, they entered into agreement with some other investors to buy up some property in Ngong, a wealthy suburb of Nairobi. For various reasons, the other parties were forced to back out, leaving Stephen and Rosemary with the property. They felt that having such a nice property all to themselves would be poor stewardship, so they began to take in orphaned children. Now they have 13 kids who refer to Stephen fondly as "Dad" and to Rosemary with exuberance as "Mum". They are all orphaned for AIDS-related reasons, and four of them have AIDS themselves. Recently, they had a brother who died of AIDS. On their mantle, there is a picture of Henry, lovingly decorated by his brothers and sisters. Henry was the youngest. He was only 7. Stephen said that it was very hard on the other kids. They all went around and introduced themselves to Ed and I, and then sang a few songs for us. While we visited, it was truly a privilege to be a part of a tandem birthday celebration. Peter was turning 15, and Doreen was turning 13. They had cake. Though wealthy among them, I felt very much like a pauper who has been invited to dine in the royal court. They are rich with love for Jesus. Stephen gave us a tour of the property. They are building a schoolhouse for the kids, and there is significant construction on the upper level while several of the downstairs rooms are already in use. Two workers toiled upstairs as we walked around the facility. Here, we also met Gad and his young son. Gad oversees the property and helps to take care of the kids when Stephen and Rosemary are in the US, although the children are on their own a lot when their Dad and Mum are gone, and several of them have to walk quite a ways to catch a bus to the hospital to pick up AIDS medication on a weekly basis. Their bedrooms are crowded, but nicely maintained, and their living room is comfortable. They have an outdoor cooking area where most of the food is cooked, and then brought into the kitchen for final preparations. Two women were preparing food. For water, they have to walk out to a large tank by the side of the road where people line up with 5 gallon jugs to purchase water. It's painstaking and expensive. Stephen and Rosemary have plans to have their own well made, from which they could draw water for themselves and for sale, helping to support the kids and maintain the property. This would be a very expensive proposition, but it would be a blessing that no expenses could account for. To visit these kids is to be overwhelmed with compassion. I wanted to help, but though I am rich by their standards, I am not. I think they are wealthier than I. Rarely have I had such a visceral understanding of the difference between riches earthly and heavenly.

After we had visited the kids, Stephen and Rosemary took us to see their home church. The Living Word Church is in the slums of Nairobi, from where most of the foster children have been rescued. The church is a tin box with a dirt floor. They have school during the weekdays and church on Sunday. A couple of women run a small business selling hand-made necklaces, earrings, and assorted accessories. There we met pastors Oliver, Richard and Shem. After visiting for a while, and greeting some of the children, Richard and Oliver got in the van with us and we continued on to see more of the area. Stephen and Rosemary direct another school of 140 kids, about a mile from the church. They also support a small tailoring shop in the slum, run by a few women making various garments to support themselves and the church. Even traveling between locations in a van, I was overwhelmed by the despondency. The utter destitution. If you haven't left the continent, you haven't seen a ghetto like this. At least 600,000 people - and possibly as many as 800,000 - pack themselves in like sardines near the filthy Nairobi river. They live in piles of trash and bathe in sewage-water. And they have AIDS. Of course not all of them are infected, but there are so many people, that to even know the exact population is impossible, so to discern what percentage has AIDS is just out of the question. But the percentage is not the point. The point is, that in the slums of Nairobi, whether you are infected or not, you have AIDS. Though not all are infected, all are affected. Stephen and Rosemary are affected. Richard and Oliver are affected. I am now affected. Sixty percent of hospital cases in and around the slums are AIDS related. I was there for only a few hours, and I simply cannot imagine what it means to be there for one's entire life. Yet, as it was in the foster home, there is a richness buried under all of the filth. Those kids have true exuberance. The smiles I saw on the faces of those we met were genuine smiles. I can see the blessedness of a life that has nothing but Jesus. Of course they are on fire for him. They have nothing else. And we sit at our computers sipping our cafe lattes worried about how we'll be able to afford to upgrade our iPhones not realizing that there are real millionaires on the other side of the world who think that fun means rolling a metal hoop by pushing it with a stick. We are the rich young ruler.

Well Fed

I suppose it's high time I told you Faustin and Salome's story, seeing as how they've been making frequent appearances here. To be honest, I can't say that I really know the full story. I'm not sure anyone could say that. It's a deep and complicated story. I'll tell you what I have discovered about them in assorted conversations over the last week and a half.

Salome has many laughs, and she makes frequent use of all of them. She giggles. She chuckles. She wheezes. She tilts her head back and rolls it around. She keels over. Her laughter is lighthearted and genuine. Faustin has a ready smile. He, too, loves to laugh. The fact that they are able to laugh at all says a lot about who they are, and the depth of peace the Lord has given to them. The fact that they are able to laugh about the hardest parts of their lives says something about them that I can't quite verbalize. Yet their sense of humor is the first thing you're likely to discover when you spend time with them. They're very open about their past, and the victory they have found in the Lord, but it takes a handful of conversations before they get to that.

Salome lost her first child 80 hours after giving birth. I cannot imagine the weight of grief that must have followed that experience. She didn't really tell us any more than that detail, but she did laugh about it, strangely enough, because of the experience that followed. While she was pregnant with Pelagy, her oldest surviving child, she was sick with malaria. How she can laugh about that kind of trauma, on the heels of her earlier trauma is unbelievable. "I negotiate with God," she chuckles, "saying to Him that I do not want to lose this baby too." Again she laughs. "I began to think that God did not want me to have a baby." I suppose she finds it funny because they have four healthy, God-fearing children now, and it is now clear that even then, the Lord had abundant blessings in store for her. Pelagy lives in Nairobi and attends Daystar University. Twins Paul and Peter are both attending Cerritos College, and the youngest, Gentille, is currently enrolled at La Mirada High School, with aspirations to become a pediatrician. Faustin praises his daughters as being the most gifted members of their family. That's difficult to imagine, because he has a masters and is studying for his PhD at Talbot while teaching courses at Biola and in Kenya and acting as the executive director of TLAfrica. Salome, likewise, has a university degree, and is rather accomplished.

During the genocide, Faustin, Salome, and the four children hid under their bed for 28 days. They were in the heart of Rwanda. I don't know how they managed to stay fed. Pelagy, who has been with us since we returned to Kenya, was 6 at the time. They lived next door to a soldier in the Rwandan army. When the militia would pass by, Pelagy would run next door and say "Please come to intervene. They're coming to take dad and mom." A frightening story, but of course, Faustin tells it with a laugh and a smile. Apparently, Pelagy has no recollection of that, and very little recollection of the genocide in general. I haven't spoken with Pelagy about the refugee camp, but I would imagine that she remembers more of that. In the refugee camp in Congo, Faustin began a ministry that reached a great many Rwandans, and there he formed many relationships that now form the basic support structure for TLAfrica. There, he himself saw great transformation, and exhibited great leadership. He has firsthand knowledge of what it means to suffer for Christ, of what it means to be transformed by Christ, and what it means to lead under Christ. His drive to serve the Lord is unmatched, and he has an evangelist's heart. He's a regular guy in casual conversation, but his passion is clear when he preaches. In the pulpit, he gets fired up. He yearns to share his victory with others. I can think of no one else (not that I am acquainted with very many Africans...) better suited to lead a revival of transformation and leadership in Africa.

"We want you to be well fed," Salome is fond of telling me, "because when you go back to America, we don't want them to think that they did not take care of you in Africa." Of course, she is most likely to tell me this during one of the meals that I have a particularly hard time stomaching. I have already spoken of how I won't really miss the food here when I go home. But I have experienced, more deeply than ever, what it means to be nourished by fellowship and the Word. Man truly does not live by bread alone. Salome, rest easy knowing that I have been well fed, and you and your family have been responsible for a large portion of that nourishment.

Oodles

We're a little over half way through our trip, and I've already shot 40 GB worth of pictures. For those of you who don't know, that's a lot. It's copious. It's a profusion. It's a plethora, a myriad, a veritable cornicopia (yes, I will again). Oodles. The silly amount of pictures I have taken deserves a word as silly as "oodles". I have kept roughly 3400 pictures. "Kept" is really the operative term here. I have deleted many many more that do not factor into the 40 GB that I currently have saved - at least as many, maybe more. Much to my dismay, retouching pictures and uploading them to my blog is just too painstaking a process for it to be practical while I'm here. The the nearly negligible ability available to make them viewable, combined with the speed of the internet connection and the time it takes to upload really makes it not worth trying anymore. Sorry. You'll just have to wait for another week before I show you anything. Delayed gratification is good for you.

A very high percentage of my photos have been taken from the windows of moving vehicles. Because of the difficulty of capturing the right image in the split second that is available, these are also most of the ones that get deleted. What is really painful for me, are the shots that I see with my eyes too late to capture with my camera. Again, most of these happen in the car, but a handful have slipped through my grasp even while walking around. There's always a focus issue, or a film speed issue, or an exposure issue. Sometimes, I just don't have the right lens on the camera, and by the time I make the switch, the moment has passed. The life of a perfectionist photographer. I've been generally proud of the work I've been doing, but like a poker player who remembers every detail of the hands he has lost, I'm destined to come home thinking of the shots I've missed. I would say I've missed oodles. At least.

On the way home from Limuru, we got a ride back to Nairobi, but we still had to take a mini-bus and then walk a ways to the bus that would take us across town to the hotel. As we were walking, Nairobi was in full swing. It's a huge city, with oodles of people, and the amount of hustle and bustle makes New York look like Fargo. It's just dirtier here. The sun was setting, and the light was perfect. I had my camera with me, and my wide-angle lens all ready to go. It was a glorious moment for a photographer. But my camera was stowed in my backpack. No, it's not broken. Let's go back to the beginning.

As we were riding in the mini-bus, there was suddenly a lot of commotion, and the assistant started yelling out the window. (Taxis in Nairobi commonly have two workers. A driver, and a guy that rides along - sometimes hanging out the open side door - to collect fares, open the door, and assist with luggage.) Then he started banging on the side of our van, and then the side of another van, and then jumping out and yelling some more, and then banging on a car and pointing in the opposite direction. Our driver flipped a very abrupt U-turn. As did three other cars right ahead of us. In the moment, I had no Idea what was going on, but I found out later that there was apparently some dispute between the local hawkers (you know, those who hawk) and the police. The hawkers were throwing rocks at the police. Rock-hucking hawkers. My compliments to the very capable team of driver and fare collector operating our van. They recognized the scene immediately, and with as much melodrama as possible, got us going the other way, along with all of the other cars on the road, before a riot broke out. But we still needed to be on the other side of the scuffle. So we had to walk. Faustin asked me to stow my camera because it was apparently too dangerous to just have it strapped to me. Our safety would be compromised. Reluctantly, I complied, not wanting to worry my travelling companions. Had I been alone, I would assuredly have had my camera out and firing rapidly. Had I been alone, I might have been hit with a rock. I might have been hawk-rocked. But I bet I could have captured some amazing shots. So we walked through a photographer's paradise with my camera in my backpack. I imagined how awesome it would be to have a compartment in my pack with a window for the lens to poke out that would allow me to take pictures remotely with my hand in my pocket. A project for another time. We got to our bus safely, where I removed my camera from its cell, and we mourned together, my camera and I, over the oodles of shots we missed.

Welcome

"Caribou!" they all kept saying to me. "Where?!" I thought. "Caribou!" "No, I haven't seen them. I didn't even know I should be on the lookout. I thought they tended to stick to the tundra." "Caribou-knee!" "Is that like a medical problem?" Perhaps I was a little slow on the uptake, but in my defense, I had spent 2 full days in Kenya without hearing this term, so I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. We were in Limuru, a town about an hour North of Nairobi, visiting Faustin's home church. There, it was explained to me that "Karibu" or "Karibuni" means "Welcome." And what a welcome Ed and I received. Perhaps I hadn't yet heard the term in Nairobi because I wasn't really welcome there. In Limuru, there was no doubt.

We spent yesterday and today in the rural and elevated town of Limuru (returning to Nairobi for lodging), for a Saturday leadership seminar Ed was giving, and Sunday church service. I think we met everyone who attends. I met Pastor Wallace, Pastor Steven, Peter, Tony, Godwin, Moses, Nelson, Benjamin, Paul, Merrick, Josephine, Anne, Anne, Anne, and Annabelle, among many others, whose names I don't remember. (People from not-USA have cool names.) One memorable character, Simon, was a simultaneously distinguished and gauche older gentleman. I asked Simon a question, trying to make conversation, and he responded, with good pronunciation and very little accent, "English does not work for me." Fair enough. Interaction complete. I suspect he spent a great deal of time learning how to say that ("I only know that sentence, and this one explaining it." "Are you serious?" "Que?"). Yet, for several hours, while Ed spoke about leadership, he sat there and took rather detailed notes. It was drizzling on Saturday morning, in the midst of a heavy blanket of cool fog, and they served us chai tea without ceasing. Apparently it's the drink of choice in that part of the country, and I have seen it served nowhere else.

After the leadership seminar, we spent the afternoon with Josephine, who is apparently either aunt or godmother for every youth in Limuru. She took us to a wedding celebration for Annabelle (niece or goddaughter), and the warm welcome continued. There were at least a hundred people there, huddled under dirty party tents waiting for the buffet. As guests, we were invited to serve ourselves first, and to sit in the front row. Faustin spoke to the young couple and then Andrew, a favorite uncle (I'd love to have him as my uncle) got up to lead everyone in a handful of jocular festivities of which I understood nothing. After a while, the groom had to go search for his hidden bride, and when we left an hour or two later, the party continued on as uproariously as it was when we had arrived. It was very appropriate to attend such a bright celebration for the union of a young couple after we had spend much of the previous week digging into the scriptures for wisdom about marriage. It was obvious that both sides of the family share a healthy and joyful love for the Lord, and I've no doubt that this young couple will have a fine support network as they live and grow together.

To welcome someone into your country, church, home, or wedding party is a big deal in Africa. They treat guests very well. Although Limuru has been the warmest reception, back in Rwanda, they weren't shy about it either. In the "restaurant" at our Ruhengeri hotel, there was a sign on one of the tables that simply said, in large, carefully crafted letters, "You're Welcome!" Funny, I hadn't even said "Thank you." (And I was really proud of them for getting the "you're" correct.) Yet, interestingly enough, this is probably a more logical way to make use of the term. In order to have an opportunity to thank someone for something, they have to welcome you first. You can't be grateful for your meal unless you have been invited to sit and eat. You can't be grateful for a ride unless you have been permitted to get in the car. So it is in Africa. You're welcome first. It reminds me (and for this, I'm sure to be berated endlessly) of Enchanted. When Giselle first shows up in New York, she gets pushed around all day until finally, at the end of the day, Derek helps her out after hearing her story and telling her sarcastically, "Welcome to New York." Of course, she takes him seriously, and responds with a big smile, "Thank you!" It works, because no one in the USA even uses the word "welcome" unless they've been thanked for something first. The thing is that here in Africa, they really do go out of their way to make sure you know that you're welcome to be here, even before you have anything to be thankful for. Welcome to Africa. Really.

Spam

Some things are inescapable, even in Africa.

Spam. Even in africa, I have to deal with spam. The few times I've been able to check my e-mail, I've foolishly logged on expecting a few nice notes from friends and family. Or course, thanks to the extra time away from my mailbox, I am met instead by an inundation of unwanted muck I have to wade through. I didn't pack for this. No, I don't want to buy your product. Facebook, you should be ashamed of yourself. And Viagra, I find your very existence offensive, so you can imagine what seeing you in my mailbox does to me. I haven't even checked my junk mail yet, and I'm not going to try.

Liberals. It seems that I can't evade the Democratic party. I just found out that Hillary is here. So in addition to this being the country of Obama's ancestors, I have to share it for a day or two with a Clinton. (They're quite proud of Obama. Hey, maybe they could produce his birth certificate for us. I'll be sure to ask.) Apparently Bill is in North Korea doing something with prisoners that he isn't officially authorized to do, and I kinda wish Hillary would head that direction too - not because I'm really that stubborn about sharing foreign territory with her, but because of the traffic. I understand that traffic in Nairobi is frequently maddening, but it is especially so whenever a US VIP is here, which brings me to...

Traffic. Oh. My. Gosh. I'd like to blame Hillary, but I understand that what we've experienced is pretty common. When we landed in Nairobi again, after our visit to Rwanda had concluded, we were to go straight to see Pelagie, Faustin and Salome's eldest daughter, who has an apartment rather close to the airport. On the way there, I think we spent more time stopped than moving. It must have taken over an hour. I don't know exactly how much time elapsed, but it was long enough for me to get tired of taking pictures out the window, and if you know me, then you know that on a scale of instantaneous to really long, that's an eternity. Fortunately, there really isn't road rage even though everyone honks constantly, or as they say, "hoots" (gag). Everyone behind the wheel is a maniac. Blinkers mean almost nothing. People get cut off left and right. Busses drive on the shoulder. It's definitely not a place for nervous passengers (sorry, mom). Furthermore, it was pretty hot in our little taxi, even though it was evening, so having the window down was a must, The problem ist hat having the window down is a bit like sucking on the tailpipe of every car in Nairobi. Which brings me to...

Smog. None of the vehicles in Nairobi would pass a smog check in the USA. The combination of exhaust and dust produces a hazy quality in the air that sticks to you. A number of times, I have taken off my sunglasses to find that there are dirt marks on my cheekbones where the bottom rim makes contact with my skin. The black lung is almost certainly in my future. I sound like Macy Gray (and I despise Macy Gray). I haven't resorted to my inhaler yet, and even if I did, I'm not sure it would help. Having an easier time breathing would only mean that I'd have an easier time drawing in carcinogens.

Spam. Or more generally, mystery meat. We don't really question it when we get it at Taco Bell, and I'm not really sure why. Here, one glance at the evening meal is sure to fill my head with all kinds of questions. Of course, the only question I'm really able to answer with any degree of certainty is, "Is this beef, chicken, fish, or something else?" Even that question often requires some chewing before it's answer becomes clear. Beyond that, all of the "How was this raised/killed/cleaned/cooked?" questions remain mysteries. If there's one thing I'm not going to miss about Africa when I return to the US, it's the food.

Growth. Not that I came to Africa to get away from growth - on the contrary, I anticipated great challenges and great growth during my time here - but I have been a bit surprised at the degree to which I have experienced it. I don't mean to say that I will be a changed man or someone else when I return, but I have definitely been challenged and impacted here in ways that will stick with me long after I return.