Abuzz

In prep for Webuye, we needed to pack light, taking only a few changes of clothes, in order to fit all our luggage into the van. I also packed in the morning yesterday, due to the wetness of the clothes I had intended to pack the night before. In my haste, I left my unused insect repellent at ByGrace, not thinking that I'd need it. There hadn't been mosquitoes in Bungoma, and there had been mosquito nets everywhere, so I wasn't very concerned to discover that I'd left it. Upon last night's arrival, however, Mitch and I entered our room to discover several mosquitoes, and no nets. I devised an ingenious solution; I turned on the fan. Our room comes complete with a standing oscillating fan, providing what must be hurricane-force winds to the perspective of a mosquito. Well, seeing as how mosquitoes experience actual hurricanes from time to time, hurricane-force winds are hurricane-force winds to the perspective of a mosquito, but I can't imagine one resisting even so much as the breeze from this fan. I determined that if it was blowing on me, my tiny assailants would be unable to establish undisturbed flight paths to my exposed skin. The gentle buzz of a fan across the room is far preferable to the piercing buzz of a mosquito in your ear. This morning, I awoke with no bites. Victory is mine.

But I was soon to experience defeat in another form. I'm not sure I'll be showering here in Webuye anymore. Yes, more shower stories. Our bathroom features a fairly nince bathtub with a shower curtain, and a shower head one would have to hold by hand because it's not mounted to the wall. Ok, I can deal with holding the shower head myself. I couldn't find the traditional water heater switch, but Mitch said that his shower last night was warm, so I wasn't concerned. The shower is also conveniently furnished with a bucket (as most Kenyan showers are, for reasons I don't understand), and a cup (which I've not seen before). I got in, looking forward to holding a nice warm shower over my head. Instead, what I got was a freezing cold shower from the cup. The frigid water flows freely from the bathtub faucet, but the shower head is not so generous. I was left with two options. I could fill the bathtub with water and take a cold bath sitting in a tub that's been filled with who-knows-what and who-knows-who, or I could fill the cup with cold water and dump it on myself repeatedly. I opted for the lesser of two evils. So now I know what the cup is for. I still have no idea about the bucket.

Our UW pastors' training is taking place at Rose of Sharon Worship Centre on the grounds of Glory Ministries in Kenya. It sounds very official, but it's just a church off the side of the road. It is quite a nice facility, however - far nicer than I had expected. We're in a large brick building with a smooth cement floor that provides ample room for the 90-plus pastors involved in the training. It also provides ample room for the 90-plus wasps' nests in the rafters. The wasps mind their own business, and typically stick to air space several feet above our heads, but when the room goes completely quiet (which is rare), I can usually hear a faint buzzing over my head. No one has been stung, so far as I know, but it's all I can do to restrain myself from gathering some stones from outside for the purposes of target practice. The most prominent buzzing, however, has been from the pastors. As before, the pastors really seem to be diving into the training. Due to the large number, I've been needed more in the leadership of discussion time than I was in Mathare. So I've had to put down the camera in order to lead small groups on several occasions. It's been almost as gratifying seeing them delve into the material so close at hand as it has been documenting. At one point, we had them write down the names of leaders in their respective churches that they would like to see involved in a sports ministry. I stepped out for a bathroom break, and when I returned, they were all engaged in the next step; praying for one another's leaders. When Americans are invited to pray all at once, each prayer is offered silently. We are missing out on an arresting experience. Kenyans are not bashful about praying aloud in a group, and in this case, the resulting collective murmur was one of the most beautiful reverberating sounds I have ever heard.

For lunch, we crossed the street to the school where we were to begin our practical sports camp for the kids. Apparently they had run out of serving spoons, and had resulted to dishing out rice from enormous pots by scooping it up with a plastic bowl. Also, for some reason, scooping up a partial serving with the bowl was not an option. Instead, the rice attendant took to filling the bowl completely and dumping it entirely onto each plate. Somehow, my serving was larger still. I was handed a plate with a heaping mountain of rice, easily enough for four of me. When I joined the team already in the process of chipping away at their heaps of rice, I wondered aloud, "Do I look like I'm 8 feet tall and 450 pounds?" I wound up returning most of my rice, and still felt as though I had swallowed one of those wasps' nests.

There weren't as many kids as I had expected at the camp. The school is rather small, and most of the children are quite young, but their limited stature doesn't prevent them from swarming around as Kenyan children are wont to do. I was bombarded with the same cries of "can you take me a picture" and simply "picha picha", as if I was some japanese anime character to be summoned to fight at the beck and call of the child. One of them asked me if I knew Obama. "I know of him - as you obviously do - but he is the president, so... no." Another asked me if I was John Cena. So maybe I do look like I'm 8 feet tall and 450 pounds. Camp was more interesting today because the entire group of pastors involved in the training sat along the sidelines as spectators. It's great that they're observing and learning how to apply the teaching practically, but it also causes an ominous feeling, not unlike the feeling I have sitting underneath an umbrella of wasps.

Indiana Jones and the Shuttle of the Shattered Skull

Now I know that according to the corresponding movies, this post would be out of order, but first of all the title of my fourth post on this subject really must come last (if you know what I mean), and second of all, this movie was just laughable enough to corrupt the franchise, so I should be able to put it in any order I choose.

We left church in Mathare to head downtown for our transportation to Western Kenya. Ryan had mentioned earlier that he was planning to put us on the mid-level bus line, which would be even crazier than the nice Easy Coach busses I've grown accustomed to. Still, I was up for the adventure. What I didn't know is that because we were leaving after church, we had missed the last bus, and therefore needed to charter a shuttle. Essentially, we wound up taking a matatu - a micro-bus taxi - all the way to Webuye, 7 hours West. Fortunately, the long-distance shuttles are nicer than the typical matatus. There are only 11 passenger seats, as opposed to 14, so everyone had more space, and the seats are pretty comfortable. I wound up in the front, with our driver, Isaac. The front provided me with the fullest field of photographic freedom I've felt in my five flights West, but I failed to film as frequently, feeling fit with the photos I'd found on the first four. The drive wasn't anywhere near as bumpy as it had been. Apparently being on a bus amplifies every little undulation of road.

The only significant bump we had occurred when we hit a sheep. Well, to say 'we hit it' doesn't quite do the incident justice. We plowed right through the thing. I mean we clobbered it right in the head. In his defense, Isaac did brake pretty hard, but we couldn't dodge left or right, due to oncoming traffic and a steep shoulder, respectively. There just wasn't time to avoid it. I've never tried to describe the facial expression or internal monologue of a sheep before, so bear with me if this first attempt doesn't quite give you a full picture. It was completely oblivious. I swear it had a pleasant smile on its face as it began to cross the road. A look of ignorant serenity. It may have been thinking "Wow, the grass on the other side really is greener. And I'm going to eat it. Yum." Perhaps its thoughts were akin to those of the sperm whale plummeting to the ground in A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. In all likelihood, it probably wasn't thinking anything, because as opposed to other four-legged creatures, sheep just don't think. And I've had confirmed for me what I've always read about sheep: sheep are just really really so dumb. Really really really so dumb. For real. After being in Kenya for a while, I'm coming to a better understanding of why God likens us to sheep.

Almost as soon as we had sheared our sheep, it began to rain. Ah yes. How could I have forgotten my old friend from Western Kenya? It rained off and on lightly for about two hours, the clouds seeming always to hover over us as if our shuttle were some cartoon character having a bad day. Then, all at once, enormous drops began to pelt the van. I would not have been surprised if the rain had dented the shuttle more severely than the sheep. Fortunately, our matatu held up, and in the pitch black of night, just after the rain had mercifully stopped, we arrived in Webuye. It was too late for dinner, so we all gathered together and ate Emily's supply of snacks for the week. Some very dry muffins and bread from the Tumaini Bakery, the greasiest cheese I've ever seen, chocolate-covered raisins, a few cereal bars, the last remnants of my coke, and two bags of peanuts (oh goody) have not been enough to satiate me. Hence, I'm off to bed with skull-splitting hunger.

Tumaini

As far as I can tell, the Mathare slum doesn't have any official walls. It's just a distinctly poor area where people live in poorly constructed cinder-block, tin, or cardboard shanties. Despite the absence of walls, Mathare may as well be a prison. Inhabitants have little hope of escape. Stephen and Rosemary are merchants of hope. Apart from Living Word Church - itself a light in the darkness - the Mbogos have helped some of their congregation by establishing a school and several small businesses. The school provides primary education for over 100 kids, in the hopes of equipping them with enough knowledge and fueling them with enough ambition to one day escape the grip of Mathare, and perhaps even make a significant difference in the local community. The businesses, a bead and craft shop, a tailoring boutique, and a bakery, all aim to provide income for owners and workers and services for the community for the purpose of improving the overall quality of life in Mathare. All four enterprises have been christened 'Tumaini', which means 'hope' in Swahili. We were able to get tours of each establishment, and many of our team made purchases. When we visited the bakery, one of the local pastors escorted us, and his little son came along. The display case was opened for us to see some custom-made birthday cakes. Just as we were about to leave, our little companion reached in and swiped a chunk of frosting off of one of the cakes. As punishment, he was given a muffin. He held it behind his back for the entire walk back to the church, wary of any opportunistic young adversaries with plans to commandeer his treasure.

Another ministry affiliated with Living Word Church is an AIDS care program. Whenever teams come to work with ByGrace, Stephen encourages the purchasing of care packages to be distributed to some of those suffering. As we were about to head out to visit the AIDS patients, Stephen took part of the team to the field to lead the sports camp, departing with a pointing finger and the words "There's no need to wait for me, the AIDS patients are just there." Those of us planning to make visits looked down the row of shanties leading to a cluster of more shanties, and scratched our heads in unison. It was at this point that I issued my most insensitive quip thus far. "So... we're supposed to waltz into every home down there asking 'Hey, does anyone in here have AIDS?" Fortunately, I think I said it softly enough not to be heard by everyone in the slum. Unfortunately, God probably hates me now.

Yet, even in the aftermath of my blatant heartlessness, we were privileged to witness a grand display of tumaini. Our intent was to visit some of the homes of people living with AIDS, provide them with a bag of groceries, and pray for them. As usual, God's plans were larger than what we had intended. We wandered a long way into the most impoverished section of Mathare (Living Word is in the 'upscale' neighborhood of the slum) until we reached the river that runs through Nairobi, which is absolutely repugnant where it winds through the slum. We found a shanty where two young women were staying. Rose and Evelyn had both come from Western Kenya, and met each other in an AIDS treatment ward, where they became intimate friends. Stephen spoke to them quite a bit in Swahili, so I didn't catch everything, but I believe that one had considered herself a Christian at one point, but was no longer following Christ, and the other had never known Him. Stephen shared with them that we had come from the USA to share the love of Christ with them, and though we couldn't give them physical healing, we could introduce them to a love that heals hearts. Both of them said that they wanted that healing. We prayed over them, invited them to church the following day, and welcomed them into the family of God. It was powerful. On the way home it rained. Rare in Nairobi, but strangely fitting.

When we got home last night, I was in high spirits. It was laundry night. Four days ago, I had deposited a handful of clothes into the giant purple laundry bin, and a day later, my clothes mysteriously reappeared in a basket upstairs by our rooms, clean. It was desperately needed, as I had worn everything I'd brought since my arrival two weeks ago. The first washing attempt involved only a few large garments, but my initial laundry success gave me hope for the cleansing of everything else. So the day before yesterday, I dropped many more items into the bin, knowing that I'd need more clean clothes before our trip to Webuye this afternoon. Hence, I had high hopes for clean clothes when we got home last night. My hopes were dashed, however, when the bin upstairs featured only one major item of the six I had deposited. The rest were still on the line. On the line in the rain. The basket did include all of my socks, but in this too, I was disheartened. Clearly, they had scrubbed the living beejeezus out of each and every sock. I could tell just by looking at my poor lifeless socks (normally they're so vivacious), that they would all be at least three sizes too big. And there's nothing worse than floppy socks bunching up in your shoes. Nothing. The holocaust is a close second. After I sorted my clothes from the basket, I trudged out into the night in the rain through the pitch-thick mud, in the pitch-black night, uphill both ways, to retrieve my clothes from the line. After 15 minutes of searching (there were quite a few items hanging out to 'dry' - as you might expect at a home full of 34 children), I finally found my prodigal garments, and took them back to our room to hang there. My hopes for dry clothes this morning were admittedly low.

When this morning came, however, hope returned to me, when I discovered that my clothes were miraculously dry. Furthermore, Sunday morning traffic was slight, lending vigor to the spirit. More importantly (ok, much more importantly) when we went to church, Rose and Evelyn were there, and smiling. I can't imagine that smiles have been frequent in their lives, but seeing them in church, surrounded by people equipped to care for them, is certainly promising. Dan spoke for the youth service, and Mitch spoke in the bible study time, which is really just another service. Then, we enjoyed an incredibly raucous and exuberant time of worship. Such joy in worship simply cannot be found among people without hope.

Clogged

We returned to Mathare today for some more UW training. Naturally, it took us forever to get there. Literally forever. In fact we're still on our way. I'm posting this from an internet cafe inside our car as we're driving. Obvious falsehood, but it did take a while. Our pastors training went very well, and we even packed a few more pastors into the little church than we had the day before. Again, I was simply astounded by how many people are crammed into the slum, in such horrific circumstances. We've been warned not to roam around alone, because when these people see white faces, they see money, and some of them just can't resist the temptation to attack in hopes of seizing whatever valuables they might get their hands on. Of course this didn't stop me from venturing out a little bit. Art is a dangerous business.

After the pastors training, it was back to the insanity - the school, I mean. Today, the field was packed full of even more kids than yesterday. We did have a little more help, because yesterday we had notified the pastors that they ought to wear more comfortable clothes (they all dress very formally), so that they might participate in the sports camp and get some hands-on training. So it was back to bible stories and athletic drills. In Kenya, basketball is primarily a girls' sport. They call it netball, and there are some variations, such as the lack of a backboard. As expected, there are real basketball teams consisting of men, but Kenyan boys all want to play football when they grow up (football being soccer), so the basketball playing is left to the girls. Today we taught defense, and we had 150 schoolgirls in uniform skirts doing defensive slides on the field, kicking up clouds of red dust. So now my lungs are clogged full of dust, and that in combination with the shouting over the awful din, has caused the loss of my voice.

The drive home was... eventful. We had anticipated friday evening traffic being even worse than it had been previously, but we had anticipated stop-and-go, not just stop. For a while we were inching along next to an old Toyota Rav4 with a spare tire cover that read "The car in front is always a Toyota." "So we have a Toyota to blame for this traffic," I thought. We sat still for over an hour. Literally over an hour. This time I'm not spouting falsehood. Workers were doing construction off to the side of the road with one of those enormous asphalt pavers notorious for their lethargic speed, and they were paving the road faster than we were driving on it. In Kenya, pedestrian traffic and vehicular traffic merge and flow together in an amoebic matrix of mayhem, so we didn't feel culturally out of place getting out of the car and walking around for a bit. Of course, we were out of place, but for an entirely different reason. I decided to walk up to the head of the gridlock to see if I could discover the source. After almost half a mile, I discovered that ahead of us on both sides of the freeway were four lanes of oncoming traffic, just as locked up as our lane. All four lanes in both directions were being diverted onto a two-lane dirt side road running perpendicularly into the city. Shitemi, our driver (the same who came to pick me up from ACK my first night at ByGrace; his name is Stephen, but we already have a prominently featured Stephen, so we normally call him by his Kenyan name, pronounced shhTEM-ee, or frequently, just shhTEM) came running after me to call me back to the van. Dan had taken over driving for the moment, as traffic began to inch along again.

When we finally reached the point where traffic was being diverted down the dirt road, there were no longer any cars headed toward us in our lane, and we had open freeway ahead. We sped down the open stretch hooting (which, coincidentally, is how the Kenyans - thanks to the Brits - refer to honking their horns) and hollering, rubbing traffic's nose in what it had done. Our victory was short lived, however. Ryan commented as we were speeding away from the gridlock, "There's probably a reason no one else is going this way." Sure enough, less than a mile later, our hubris confronted us in the form of a giant impassible pit. The giant hole we found at the end of our section of freeway where construction had not been completed was at least six feet deep, 40 yards long, and spanned both lanes. Dan's one saving grace was that he didn't drive us right over the edge. Good job, Dan. Shitemi reclaimed driving responsibilities and got us turned around to head back from whence we came. When finally facing the other direction, we discovered that we had led hundreds of other commuters astray. A line of headlights in all shapes and sizes shone an accusatory spotlight upon us. Shitemi said it was "Like two blind people leading each other around." That's not quite the expression, but close enough. Since we were leading the pack (proof that the car in front isn't always a Toyota), and now the pack needed to go the other way, we found ourselves once again in the back of the pack. It took quite a while for everyone to get turned around - especially the numerous large trucks that had followed - and so we waited some more.

By this time, we had been on the road for nearly four hours, and had already missed dinner, so we decided to stop for an all-American meal. Pizza. As with my quesadilla and Mike's burger from a few days before, it wasn't as all-American as expected - it was just a little bit different - but it was still very good. They make it with very thin crust, and not much tomato sauce, but there's plenty of cheese (which I haven't had much of lately) and toppings. I had three pieces of steak pizza, two pieces of hawaiian, and one of barbecued chicken (which was the best, but we didn't order a second, and it went pretty fast). With arteries sufficiently clogged and stomachs sufficiently filled, we got back on the road and headed back to ByGrace for another late night preceding another early morning.

Sardines

The sting of having to wake up earlier this morning was eased ever so slightly by the warmth of the shower. It was a trickle, but it was a hot trickle. (That might just be the strangest sentence I have ever typed.) Our untimely rising was thanks to the need for a timely departure for Mathare, the slum where Stephen's church is located. Due to the absurd amount of traffic, we needed at least an hour to get there. The freeway is under construction (which, I gather, is a relatively constant state of affairs), increasing the severity of the already gratuitous traffic. People roll along, packed together like sardines, except each sardine has his own little tin box. We took two wrong turns, thanks partly to complicated detours, and partly to the fact that Stephen was leading the way.

Once we arrived, the sardine theme continued. 600,000 people live in Mathare, and many of them do live in little tin boxes. Those that don't live either in shoddily constructed multi-story concrete structures, or expertly constructed cardboard structures. In either case, these are the worst living conditions I have ever witnessed. Adding to the sense of sardination is the frequency of kiosks selling fish. Normally, I detest the smell of uncooked fish, but in this case, it was a welcome step up from the smell of raw sewage emanating from many parts of the slum. I had visited Mathare for a few hours during my previous trip, in order to visit Stephen's church, but I don't quite remember it being this emetic. The children pour out of every nook and cranny when muzungus appear - especially muzungus with cameras. I was overwhelmed by the number of kids. That is to say; I was in awe mentally and emotionally, and I was engulfed physically. Any time I was in sight, they would swarm me, all speaking at once, demanding pictures. Whenever I would appease their little desires to be documented, instead of smiling nicely - or even gawking odiously - they tackle each other for a chance to thrust peace signs directly into the camera lens (often scuffing up the lens with their grubby little fingers). Consequently, I took more pictures of blurry juvenile hands than cute juvenile faces. In most cases, I would show them the picture that was taken, frequently with some sort of comment like "if you want to see yourselves, you might not want to stick your hands in front of your faces." and then immediately delete the picture. When attempting to photograph... anything at all... inevitably a child or two or thirty would leap in front of the camera just as I snapped. Of course, this ritual was always followed by demands to see the picture I obviously intended to take of them. I developed an expert strategy for mastering this scenario. First, I would compose my shot and set my focus as kids were crowding my picture plane. Then, I'd turn around and pretend to photograph something else, at which point they would run around to the other side of me in an attempt to photobomb whatever I wasn't planning on shooting. Third, I would spin back around to my original composition and take the picture before any of them had an opportunity to ruin it. Finally, I would proudly show them the picture I had taken, saying something like "Hey guys, check out how awesome this shot is because none of you are in it." And yes, the fourth step is an essential part of the process.

Our Uncharted Waters pastors training took place in Living Word Church. Stephen's corrugated tin church is not a big place, but though we packed quite a few pastors in there, we did have some room to spare. The morning began with some worship before Ryan and Dan began teaching the pastors about sports evangelism. It's a new concept for many of them, because sports and faith are often seen as diametrically opposed to one another. As the pastors had in Bungoma, these pastors dug into the material right away, and before too long, we were off and running with engaging discussion and solid teaching.

After the conference, we headed up to a nearby school for the sports camp. Technically, the school was outside the slum, but it was right on the border, and it seemed as though many, if not most of the kids may have been from the slum. I'm convinced that these children had lateral lines as fish do, communicating one to another the ability to maneuver together in a swarm. The entire school of children rushed out of their classrooms onto the vast dirt field as we arrived. Each of us were instantly surrounded, like bits of flotsam and jetsam for them to pick at. We estimated a number of about 300 kids actually involved in the camp. Many more didn't participate, which was fine, because the number we had was about all we could handle with our limited staff. I took remarkably few pictures, because I was blatantly aware of the intense need to be helpful in managing children. I came prepared for anything, and willing to put down the camera in order to help in any way, but when Dan, Mitch, and I tried to run basketball drills for well over 100 kids while 200 more were involved with soccer, the designation 'fish out of water' did come to mind. After two hours of soccer and basketball, songs, bible stories, and mass chaos, we left exhausted.

Ambition

Stephen Mbogo is a very ambitious fellow. It's for this reason that there are so many ongoing projects at the ByGrace home. I'm inclined to say that while the vision is clear, the glasses are quadrafocals. The construction of the living quarters and school rooms, the wash area concrete pouring, the greenhouse project, the building of the chapel, and the boring of a water well that have all been in process this week only represent a small percentage of the larger ByGrace picture. Stephen and Rosemary have set their eventual goal at the boarding and schooling of 2500 kids from the greater Nairobi area. Using this ByGrace Home as a model, they plan to establish nine more homes all around Nairobi, in hopes of providing for 250 kids at each of the ten facilities run by the organization. Hearing Stephen outline the action plan cuts the rather daunting task down to size, and makes it seem quite practical.
This type of ambition pervades nearly everything Stephen does, down to the planning of our weekly schedule. Today we had planned to do construction at the ByGrace Home, visit Amani Ya Juu, run a UW sports camp, and listen to one of the Mathare slum pastors give an introductory talk about the slums before tomorrow's first visit. Of course, breakfast, tea, lunch, tea, and dinner were also on the docket. Especially considering the minimum driving time of an hour between each activity, we may have been over-stepping practicality just a bit.
Our busy day began with the transport of yet another primary earth component: sand. Apparently as one graduates from dirt to rocks to sand, one also graduates from wheelbarrows to group passing, to group passing up a three-story scaffold. We were tasked with moving a pile of sand from the ground to the roof of the primary structure being worked on, the living quarters and classrooms. There is a huge scaffold made out of stripped tree branches and two-by-fours, providing enormous stairs from the ground to the roof. We formed a line, as we had yesterday, except this line was staggered vertically up the scaffold. Shovelers on the ground deposited sand into sacks, which we passed up to the roof. I still have no idea why sand is needed on the third story.
After lunch, we hopped in the vans headed for Amani Ya Juu. Amani is a business ministry founded by one of Granada's missionaries, Becky Chinchen. Its mission is to take widowed or battered women off of the streets and provide them with an income and a support group through the crafting and vending of beautifully ornate textiles. Amani Ya Juu means 'higher peace' in Swahili, and that is truly a blessing imparted to these women. The Nairobi facility is where the ministry began, but Becky has expanded the organization into other countries across Africa, having just opened one in Liberia where she now lives and works. We weren't expecting to see her, but felicitously, she was there engaged in some business meetings, and was able to take some time out of her schedule to come and meet with us while we toured the facility. We met women from Kenya, Tanzania, Somalia, Uganda, Rwanda, D.R.C., and perhaps more, all working together at their sewing machines or tie-dyeing stations, all joyful and thankful for the opportunity to grow in the Lord and support their families. The Biola team was able to stick around a bit longer, but our team had to hop right back in the van to get back to our sports camp.
Out on the field today, I discovered that I am now capable of running once again. Of course, I bypassed the recovery evaluation phase, wherein a prudent recovering invalid spends a few days determining the physical limits mandated by his recovery. Instead, I jumped right in and started playing soccer (on a ridiculously uneven field). Perhaps my aspirations were lofty, but I'm glad I did. For an athlete, there's nothing like getting back on the field after an uncomfortable forced hiatus. Now that I know I'm destined to be a short white guy unfit for the NBA, I have to satisfy my athletic ambitions by playing soccer with school children. I've no doubt that my ankle will disagree with my decision tomorrow morning, but I've had the last laugh today.

Hooligans

The ByGrace Home is populated by kids from decidedly rough circumstances. My previous estimate was indeed outdated. There are 34 kids officially living at the facility, and many more come for schooling during the day. Most are orphans, and those who are not are from abusive homes or single-parent situations. So it's no surprise that many of them are violent. Adorable, to be sure, but violent. Most of the time, the violence is just play-fighting, but many of them are coming into that notorious age that sees their strength rise before their understanding of how their strength is rising. A year ago, a child may have been able to punch me at full force with no consequences, but now, that same child does not understand that his full-force punch can do damage.

Roughhousing is one of my favorite activities. I'm quite careful with the little ones, and haven't injured a child yet. Children, however, have injured me. Last night I was fulfilling my duties as jungle gym for an hour or so, while also participating in a vigorous pillow fight (decorative throw pillows are not as soft as bed pillows...). Of course, it wasn't too long before one child was leaning against my leg when another slid into my foot, thus rolling my ankle under once again. It was another battle won by the ankle. Moments later, it had swollen distinctively, and Stephen brought me a pack of frozen milk to set on it for a while. It was much more rheumatic this morning than it has been for several days, but surprisingly, as the day progressed, it limbered up quite nicely, and I was even able to juggle a soccer ball a bit when soccer time came.

There is a gang of youngsters who are never seen without their tires. There are usually three of them, sometimes four, and they roll their tires everywhere like auto mechanics in training. The oldest is maybe six, and I'd be surprised if the youngest was much older than four, considering that his tire comes up to his shoulders. They scamper about behind their giant rubber donuts, terrorizing the neighborhood, as any self-respecting gang should. I'll call them Riff, Diesel, and Action. (The fourth, Tony, I'm sure is seeing some lucky young lady somewhere, and hasn't been able to find as much time for his buddies lately.) Every once in a while they will all simultaneously stop, stack their tires, and gather around, looking suspiciously this way and that, apparently engaged in a war council. Then, with great purpose, they'll upend their tires and trundle away in a row, obviously headed for a rumble somewhere on the dodgy side of town.

At lunch today, this little piggy went to market, but not as before, in Bungoma. Several of us piled into the ByGrace matatu headed to town to change money, use the internet cafe, and visit the supermarket. We had taken a late lunch, so by the time we got to the place where we were to change money, it was already after two. Next stop was the supermarket, where I was delighted to discover very small shopping carts. I immediately took one, reveling in the knowledge that standing next to this cart, I must appear enormous (not a notion I'm often able to entertain). I'm sure the management must have thought me a crazy nuisance as I scampered around with my tiny cart taking pictures of all kinds of strange things. But I rewarded them for their patience by purchasing goods from their establishment. I walked out with two bottles of water, a Coke and a Fanta, banana flavored dark chocolate, some cereal bars, and a carton of hazelnut-flavor Pokers, which I purchased primarily because of the name, but partially because I love cream-filled wafers (which, as context would suggest, is what they are).

During soccer time, several of the boys took it upon themselves to kick each other repeatedly. Hardly a moment went by that one child couldn't be found kicking another in the leg or in the behind. One of the smaller ones decided it was his duty to perform the ritual on me. This would be one of those children small enough to remember what it was like to kick someone without causing severe injury, but big enough to have grown out of that stage without knowing it. His kicks gradually increased in fortitude and force, until the sixth or seventh kick that was quite noticeable. It didn't help that he was wearing those heavy black school boots. Finally, he landed one square on my shin bone, exactly where I had jammed a wheelbarrow support rod the day before. It was all I could do not to react. I know I kept a straight face however, because I grinned down at him as if I had taken the best he had to offer and felt nothing, at which point he ceased his attack, defeated. In my triumph, I grabbed him by the legs and slung him over my shoulder to cart him off to one of the activity groups where he should have been in the first place.

Perhaps one of the most encouraging ministries going on at ByGrace is counseling. It's something the kids obviously need badly, considering their backgrounds, but it's not something we ever think to provide for them amidst all of our evangelizing, constructing, and VBSing. Stephen and Rosemary are very insightful into the real needs of the children, and so they've invited two students from Azusa who are doing psychological evaluations, and a counsellor from Biola who is following up with therapy sessions for the kids based upon their individual needs. I can't speak to the progress they're making, having only been here for a few days, not being invited into the closed sessions, but it's clear that Stephen and Rosemary are wholly devoted to the health of these children. They're as wild about these hooligans as the hooligans are wild, and their contagious zest for the Lord is so strong that I can't imagine a child in this environment not catching the frenzy.

Change of Pace

I'm sure that you're not interested in continually reading about the quality of my shower times, but they're foundational experiences for me, so I shall continue to write about them. This morning's shower was significantly warmer than yesterday's. Of course, that's not to say it was warm - let's say it was lukecold - but I was able to spend a shorter time in the stall, and a much higher percentage of the time under the water. The noteworthy bathroom incident of the morning was after breakfast. I made use of the facilities, and when finished, performed my task to perfection - I pushed the flush lever. The toilet, however, dropped the ball, and much more. It commenced spewing water with great force from the bottom of the tank onto the floor behind the toilet. Naturally, the floor of the toilet stall is sloped ever so slightly toward the interior of the room, and the floodwaters immediately rushed out of the stall into the room, headed straight for Mitch's stuff. Like a national guard flood response team, I rushed into action, grabbing a towel, and planting a brilliantly successful levee in the path of the deluge, thus protecting the very grateful inhabitants of Mitchburg.

To really change pace must require either speeding up or slowing down. Often, I think we apply the term too liberally (I'm not advocating a more correct usage of the phrase, as some do when they freak out about how the word "awesome" is over-used - honestly I really don't care - it just seems as though most of the time we use the expression, we don't quite mean it in the same way). Someone will experience a new work environment in which they're doing different tasks, and call it a "nice change of pace", when in reality they're working just as hard, and really it's just a nice change of scenery. With the team here, and a shift in ministry activities, it's a true change of pace. Faustin was very careful to ensure that Mike and I were comfortable, always checking to make sure we were rested and cared for. Stephen has no such reservations. I'm fairly certain that the goal now is to discover whether or not we are capable of working at full capacity all day long for a week and a half before we burn out.

With yesterday's mound moving task completed, our sights turned to a new project of elemental transport. Several loads of large stones were dumped off yesterday during soccer time, leaving a giant rock pile just beyond the fence surrounding the yard behind the school and living quarters building where we had moved the dirt mound and the green grass grows all around, all around, and the green grass grows all around. Well, actually, what grows all around is corn, and the grass is mostly brown, but you get the point. We formed an assembly line passing rocks from the pile to one corner of the yard to begin laying them out evenly over the entire field as a foundation for the concrete slab that is to be poured on top. We sang some songs to pass the time while we passed the stones, which nearly always deteriorated into musical spoofs on our activity, thanks to Stephen. "This train is bound for glory, this train" became "This brick is bound for glory, this brick." While the work was about the same, the change of scenery was nice. One scene remains the same: though my view of ministry is from a different angle, it's the same outlook on the growth of God's kingdom. Whether working leisurely in body and strenuously in mind or furiously in body and relaxed in mind, the work is valuable.

After tea, we returned to our pile of stones to discover that it had grown. Apparently a new load had been dropped off. As we continued to pass rocks, the truck returned again. Oh good - more rocks! I was beginning to worry whether we'd run out. Twice more, the truck arrived to replenish our supply which was in no way dwindling. The standard method of getting the stones out of the truck into the pile is to jump in amidst the rocks and shovel them out between your legs like a dog digging a hole. I hopped up into the truck to do some shoveling myself upon the arrival of one of the loads. Some of the stones are quite heavy, and the constant bending and lifting just might come back to bite me in the lower back. At least it'll take some of the attention away from my ankle. That'll be a nice change of pace.

The Right Tool

I woke this morning to a tumult of clanging and slamming. Work had begun on the third story of the compound where our living quarters are, which also houses the classrooms for the children, so there was hammering above, and screaming below. There are two shower stalls in our room. After Dan flipped the water heater on for me, I waited a few minutes and stepped into one of the stalls. I turned the water on and proceeded to spend half of my shower time waiting for the water to warm up. When it never warmed up, I spent 90% of the remaining shower time (that's 45% of total shower time, for those of you who didn't already do the math) building up the courage to step under the ice cold water. Finally, I showered for about a minute (ok, so my percentage estimates may be a little off; I didn't actually spend 20 minutes in the shower stall). After I got out, and commented that the water had been freezing, Dan checked the other stall. Warm.

At ByGrace, there are numerous projects constantly going on, so there is a variety of work to be done. While some of the team worked in the greenhouse, preparing to plant tomatoes, the rest of us were tasked with dirt transportation. Behind the school and living quarters, there was a mound of dirt. A very short distance away, there was a trench. Our job was to move the mound into the trench. It was difficult work, because the ground was rather hard clay, and adequate tools were in short supply. Most of us spent the day grabbing chunks of clay and tossing them into one of four wheelbarrows, which, when full, would be carted 20 feet across the yard and dumped there. Several times, I opted simply to toss the dirt across the yard, bypassing the middle step, wishing for a more efficient means of accomplishing our task. The two good pick-axes and two good shovels were in use, so I worked for a long time breaking clay up with what was essentially the straight end of a really large pry bar. It was absolutely the wrong tool for the job, but it did get the job done.

Tea time came at 11:00, and I was relieved, because after a long morning of hard work in the hot sun, a hot cup of tea is exactly what I want. Hot tea is the wrong tool for the job of quenching thirst. I nearly went upstairs to drink from the shower, knowing for certain that it would at least be cold. After tea, Stephen came out to work with us, proclaiming that he believed we could finish our dirt transportation by lunch. It would stand to reason that faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains, it can also move mounds. Whether because a larger seed of faith was required, or because Stephen's faith just wasn't large enough, we didn't conquer the mound before lunch. I think we might have if we had been in possession of more than two functional shovels.

After lunch, we did. While a team of locals worked on shoveling still another mound of dirt, we finished our task and prepared for soccer time. Part of our ministry here is through an organization called Uncharted Waters, which is dedicated to running sports camps around the world, and training local pastors to do the same. In a place like Kenya, where there are so many unsupervised children wandering around, it can be difficult to get them into a church service, but when they see a soccer ball, they're willing candidates. One slight misgiving I've had about this trip has been that our team may not be ideally suited for sports ministry. Ryan, our UW leader, Dan, and Laura are all fine soccer players, and right at home leading such a camp. I wouldn't call myself a fine soccer player, but I'm comfortable enough in a sports environment to be of use as well. Unfortunately, my ankle still prefers not to be a willing participant, so I was sidelined for the day, taking pictures. Mitch and Conrad, I anticipated would adapt well, but Emily, Sandi, and Terri, by admission, aren't exactly at home on a soccer field. What I discovered, and I shouldn't be surprised, is that the Lord can use any tool for His purpose. Our first day camp went very well, I thought, as those who didn't play soccer proved to be effective teachers during the lesson time and necessary for playing with the non-participants. I've little doubt after today that we need not worry about our roles. Whatever the ministry, a willing heart is the only tool God needs.

Slow Connection

After our reunion with the Granada team and a tour of ByGrace, Faustin, Mike, and I hopped in the ByGrace private matatu and headed for Nairobi. I had protested in the morning when it was decided that I ought to leave my luggage at the Anglican Guest House where Mike will continue to stay, anticipating (quite correctly), that eventually picking it up would be out of the way and require quite some time for whoever was tasked with the responsibility. But we left it anyway, and found ourselves at ByGrace in the early evening, I without my luggage. It would be helpful, however, to head back to ACK Guest House to utilize the wireless internet one last time, especially since there were some photos I needed to email to Faustin.

Our driver's name was also Stephen, and he's a regular at ByGrace working with the kids and helping with construction and upkeep. Though young, he managed the hectic roads expertly. When we got to ACK, we decided I should stay there to handle my internet needs while Stephen went to the airport to pick up another guest who would be working at ByGrace. At the time I was quite confused, because with Kenyan efficiency being what it is, we hadn't really settled on whether Stephen (our driver) would be returning from the airport to retrieve me, or whether Stephen (Mbogo) would be following behind us to retrieve me, or whether someone would have just gone to pick up my luggage without my presence being required (which would have been nice, but it would also have prevented me from sending pictures to Faustin: a blessing in disguise, I suppose). I knew I'd need a good amount of time to send the shots Faustin wanted, because the wireless connection, while quite convenient, is terribly slow. Furthermore, my aged computer isn't very good at finding wireless signals, even when I can almost see the floating through the air. So I had to sit in the dining room, because it was the only place I could pick up signal. The problem with the dining room is that there are no outlets, and my aged computer isn't very good at staying alive without being tethered to the wall. Of course, this compounded the situation when it began to take longer than the battery would allow to upload the attachments and send the emails, thanks to the terribly slow internet connection. Briefly, I had to suspend my internet activity in order to move to another room in order to charge my aged computer in order to return to the dining room in order to wait for attachments to upload. I sat there for so long that they tried kicking me out. Apparently I was occupying too much space at one of the 7 unused tables which were meant to be used by some group that never showed up to eat.

All of this should have been even more maddening than it was, because I should have had a driver waiting on me by the end of the two and a half hours it took to upload 37 pictures and send 5 emails. But I didn't have anyone waiting on me. In fact, two and a half hours later, I was done with plenty of time to spare. Mike had waited up with me, but by this point, it was nearly 11:00, and we reasoned that it might just be time for me to crash with him in the extra bed which I was no longer paying for at this point. We advised the front desk to call our room when my driver arrived, but I wasn't holding my breath. In fact I had just begun to fall asleep when the phone rang. "Sir, your car is here to take you." the voice on the other end informed me, incredibly dryly, as if it wasn't 11:37.

It seems that the delay was due to our new guest having missed her connecting flight, and the next flight had been delayed by several hours. One slow connection deserves another. Slowly, I climbed out of bed and slowly donned some respectable clothes. Slowly I shoved some garments into my duffle and slowly I gathered my stuff to slowly trudge toward the front desk. Our connecting drive back to ByGrace was refreshingly brief. Apparently the traffic isn't quite as chaotic at midnight as it is at 5:00. It was 12:08 when I climbed into bed. Ryan greeted me from his slumber with a grunt. Dan actually managed some coherent words, although I don't remember exactly what they were - in my lethargy, my mental processing speed was somewhat diminished. Mitch, as dormant as a doormouse (.... yeah, that's not a thing), didn't even acknowledge my presence.

The Hill Country

A new journey began this morning, as we headed for Sunday morning service in Limuru, about 45 minutes from Nairobi. Limuru Town Baptist Church would probably be considered Faustin's home church. He pastored there for several years, and still serves as a mentor for several pastors and elders who form the backbone of the church. He showed up at the hotel without Salome, who fell ill last night, and decided to take a day off, and without a driver, because once again, traffic prevented our usual driver from attending to us. So what I suspected would be a simple (and marginally boring) taxi ride became an authentic Kenyan extravaganza. First, we boarded a public bus. I was again disappointed that I didn't get to share foot space with pigs and elbow space with chickens while surrounded by a mob of shouting natives. We alighted in the middle of downtown, and walked for 10 minutes through the bustling city, scurrying across busy streets and darting in front of all kinds of very large vehicles moving very fast. We finally arrived at the matatu hive. I don't think it's officially a "station" as most of the taxi vans are privately run, but it seems to be a corner where they can always be found. The chaos of our early commute reached its climax here, as I certainly had my fill of shouting natives trying to coax us into their vans. We selected one headed for Limuru, and to my delight, I got to sit in front with the driver and one other guy. Soon we were barreling down country roads as if pursued by the fires of hell (our destination was heaven, after all, whether in the form of church or death in a tragic matatu accident). Limuru is up in a very lush area of rolling hills, just Northwest of Nairobi, so the drive is quite scenic. About half way there, the dude sitting between the driver and I got off, and we picked up another passenger. I slid over to the middle, not realizing that my right thigh would be sharing space with the shift lever for the remainder of the trip.

When we arrived in Limuru, we made a breakfast stop for Faustin, who hadn't eaten yet, and then walked to church. The service was already in full swing, blasting jubilantly through speakers cranked up far too loud, as is the fashion. Limuru Town Baptist is truly a church on a hill. Thanks in large part to Faustin's influence, this relatively small congregation is well respected by churches all around the area. This church is as welcoming as any church I have ever attended. I was excited to meet many of the friendly faces I had met during my previous visit, including one unfairly adorable little girl who was the subject of one of my favorite pictures from 2009. I almost didn't recognize her, until she smiled at me, and then didn't stop smiling for the rest of the day. Mike delivered an excellent message about prayer while I took pictures and entertained the children. After church, we were invited to another masterful display of Kenyan cooking and hospitality, put on by the pastor's wife, in their little apartment. The grace and obvious pastoral care showed by this family illustrate further why Limuru Town Baptist is so outstanding in the community.

Finally, we caught another matatu through the hill country to another city on a hill - ByGrace Childrens' Home. It really is a small city. Stephen and Rosemary Mbogo care for 27 orphans from the Mathare slum in Nairobi proper, and provide school for many more (that number may be outdated, as they may have inherited a few more since the last estimate I was given). I was very excited for phase two of my trip, and for some more fellowship with the team from Granada, fresh off the plane. Ok, so they weren't quite fresh. When we finally found the place (Faustin and Mike had never been there, and my knowledge of the countryside surrounding Nairobi is not what it once was), we weren't greeted by anyone we had expected to greet us. Gad, the Mbogos property manager and caretaker let us in the front gate, and we came upon a horde of children playing in the yard, but no other familiar faces. Stephen was off on one of his escapades, and the Granada team was asleep. We wandered into the guest quarters where we're to stay, and a few tired, but excited friends came out to greet us. Anita, Sandi, Terri, Emily, Mitch, Laura, and Conrad managed to stave of exhaustion for a while longer to see us. We toured the grounds for a while, watched the kids push each other around in giant iron wheelbarrows (what wonderful safe fun), and had some tea. It was Mike's only chance to see friends from church before he heads back home. As with TLAfrica and Limuru Town Baptist Church, it's clear that the ByGrace Childrens' Home is standing tall and strong. My view has changed, but I've just migrated from one hill to another.

The End of the World as We Know It

While in Bungoma, Mike was online and discovered that there has been a California law passed mandating the teaching of gay history in schools. First of all, what gay history? Despite the fact that I have a significant bias on the issue, I can say this without much bias at all: there really just isn't that much gay history to teach. To attribute homosexuality to any number of major historical figures who may have actually been gay (as I suspect one who plans to teach gay history must do) is little more than endorsing poorly documented heresay and trivial oral tradition. Nearly all of the noteworthy proven homosexuals have lived in the past century, and in most cases, their contributions to the historical fabric have had little to do with their homosexuality. To spend extra time studying them simply because of their sexual orientation is just robbing time from other figures of greater importance, all things considered.

Over the past few days, Mike and I have had numerous conversations about the cultural differences between Kenya and the USA, which nearly always lead to discussions of the deterioration of American culture, and that of the West on the whole. Several of the pastors at the conference reprimanded us - not without cause - for our lackadaisical commitment to commitment, that is, to the sanctity of marriage. To think that two years ago, I was in Rwanda watching Ed provide a marriage training seminar, when we have as much to learn from Africans about fidelity as they have to learn from us.

Faustin observed that moral decline always precedes socio-economic decline and political dominance. It's a theory that holds true throughout history. We've been seeing a moral decline for decades, why are we surprised that our economy is swirling the toilet bowl? If we're really teaching history properly, we would note the connection between the two. Instead, we're planning to celebrate moral decline in history class.

Chesterton proposes that civilization leads to barbarism, just as barbarism leads to civilization. I imagine that the ancient Romans felt some sort of terrible doom impending as their great civilization came to an end. Until the generation of Romans who lived through the fall of their empire, no Roman knew what the collapse of an empire would look like, feel like, smell like. In history books, it seems so abrupt, as though it had happened overnight. We read through the several chapters about the Roman empire, and then we turn the page, and the next chapter is about someone else. No more Rome. Of course, common sense tells us that the fall didn't happen so quickly, and certainly it must have been earth-shattering for those Romans living during that time. Their ancestors had known only prosperity for hundreds of years. Until the collapse began, they had no reason to expect it was coming, and no real reason - apart from the second law of thermodynamics (which they were probably unfamiliar with) - that it should ever come. Perhaps we're on the brink of an empire collapse now. Why would America anticipate or expect to fall? Yet I think many of us are beginning to have a feeling that must have been similar to that felt by those Romans so long ago.

For those Romans who were believers, they must have expected the Lord's return to come very soon. Just as many have expected and even predicted since He left. Arrogance is astonishing. Citizens of world powers always seem to think that the end of their empire must herald the apocalypse. Surely no nation could ever be greater than ours, so if this is the end of us, it must also be the end of everything. Just because we are a powerful and prosperous nation does not mean that our certain eventual fall will coincide with the end of the world. Just the end of the world as we know it.

On another note, the world as I know it is coming to an end this afternoon, with the arrival of the team from Granada.

Indiana Jones and the Travel of Doom

One thing I forgot to mention when we first arrived in Bungoma is that at the Bungoma Easy Coach station, there is a terribly incongruous lamppost. Quite obviously, it signifies your entry into Narnia. I have seen many strange and wonderful things during my stay. We held a leadership conference in a castle surrounded by kings and queens, I rode atop a centaur named Boda-boda, and I was befriended by a faun named Franco. Now, back at the lamppost, it's time to begin our jarring journey back through the wardrobe. Well, I guess we won't be going all the way through, considering that we'll stop in Nairobi, and while Mike goes home, I, like Edmund and Lucy, will be privileged to return again to Narnia very soon.

For one reason or another, the ride back to Nairobi didn't seem as infuriatingly turbulent as our first trip from Nairobi to Bungoma. This is curious to me, because two years ago, it was the ride back that was worse. Therefore, I think I can rule out the South side of the road being in better shape than the North side (in Kenya, they drive on the left), and it's all the same road anyway. So you might think such an ominous title inappropriate for a ride that wasn't as ominous as expected, but I still maintain its relevance. Simply being in a vehicle on a road in Kenya is dangerous enough. We were afforded many opportunities to die. We passed traffic in either direction at breakneck speeds with inches to spare. I'm a very calm passenger, but I also vividly remember seeing a bus laying flat on its side during our trip two years ago. I have a picture to corroborate. So there's an image that I couldn't quite get out of my head while we were careening down the road, very much like a runaway mining car hurtling through mine shafts towards certain death. Furthermore, we were nearly trampled to death by a herd of zebra (Or is it zebras? I saw many much moosen in the woods. In the woodsenen... wow, most of you didn't get that. Sorry.) Ok, so that's a total fabrication, but we did see a herd of zebra. Several herds in fact. And it helped to distract from the certain death all around us.

When we arrived at the Easy Coach station in Nairobi, our normal driver wasn't there, due to the absurd traffic. Faustin went looking for a taxi, and moments later, returned in an old-school Toyota Corolla. I spotted our problem right away. Four people and two chickens, with an average of two items of luggage a piece, three if you count the chickens as luggage, and not as passengers. A Corolla is not a large vehicle. After playing luggage Tetris five or six times and losing, our driver finally got all of the major pieces in the trunk. Of course that still meant that everything else had to go on our laps. It was a very cramped taxi ride, but enjoyable as well.

We got settled in at ACK Guest House (Anglican Church of Kenya), and Faustin and Salome took us out for a very nice, unintentionally multicultural dinner. The menu at the Nairobi Java House where we ate is quite extensive and almost completely devoid of typical Kenyan cuisine. I had the privilege of enjoying some very good mexican food (a beef quesadilla) from an American restaurant in Kenya, and it almost tasted authentic. Mike had a bleu cheese burger. We both agreed that there was something a bit different about our food that neither of us could put a finger on, but that didn't detract from its deliciousity. It was a much appreciated treat from Faustin and Salome, and honestly the least they could do after putting us through that terrifying bus ride again.

Unwanted Gifts

I'm sure that at one point or another, you've been given a gift that wasn't exactly high on your wish list. It's not that you don't appreciate the sentiment - there is gratitude - it just happens that the item in question is somewhat less than desirable. Tuesday's second lunch (my second helping of corn while visiting women out in the countryside) was like that. Also, in spite of the food on the whole having been excellent, one or two things that were served to us for lunch throughout the week just didn't look very appetizing. I'm very thankful for the work that was poured into making these meals, and I know they was made with the right intention, but I'm a picky American.

How often does salvation fall into this category? It is given to us freely, and we know that we need it badly, but sometimes it doesn't look very appealing. "I offer you a chance to die to yourself." Hmm, no thanks. I'm not hungry for that. Maybe if I was really starving, I'd have some, or perhaps if I was more adventurous, I'd give it a try, but I'm a picky American; I know what I like and I've got what I need.

So, remember when I thought one of the women was trying to present me with a live chicken? Yeah... she was. Not only was she trying, but unbeknownst to me, she was successful. I had been officially presented with a live chicken. When we hopped out of Juma's matatu at the bus station this morning, I was quite surprised when Veronica bestowed upon me a clucking cardboard box tied with twine and punched full of holes. "Here is your chicken." she announced straightforwardly. I'm sorry, here's my what now? After brief discussion and ample laughter, I decided to give it to Veronica. "You can cook it for me next time." I quipped. After some more laughter, Veronica decided to present it as a gift to honor Salome, adding to the other chicken that had indeed been given her the other day. So my twice unwanted chicken is now riding in the cargo hold of our bus, as Salome's second chicken. I believe she plans to slaughter them both tonight. Luckless clucker can't catch a break. Good thing I didn't get to attached to it.

The Last Supper

It seems that where discipleship is concerned, a last supper is implied. After a few hours of rest, we were invited to Veronica and Juma's for our final evening meal in Bungoma. I had been to their house yesterday while we were out visiting women, but only for a few minutes. Their house is certainly nicer than any of the other homes we had visited, but still very modest by any standard other than Bungoma standard. Juma built it himself. The walls are of brick, as opposed to the mud typical of the area, and the roof is of tin, as opposed to straw. They have a sizable living room with several couches perfectly suited for hosting small bible studies. The remains of their previous home lie just across the footpath leading to their front door, and I'd have missed the ruins entirely if Veronica hadn't pointed them out. Their old house is now literally just a pile of mud that could easily be confused for the site of an archaeological dig.

We were joined by Godfrey, a close friend and ministry partner who works with Juma at the church, and Juma's mother, who is one of the women involved in the women's micro-finance ministry, and is one of the most joyful women I've ever met. Veronica fixed a wonderful dinner of traditional Kenyan delights; rice, vegetable stew, cabbage, potatoes, chicken, and our favorite - chapati. Chapati is very much like Mexican tortillas, except thicker and (I may have to condemn myself as a heretic when I say this) better. They don't have electricity, so we ate by the light of a ingle kerosene lantern. My long-held, but seldom-tested suspicion was confirmed; black people are really hard to see in the dark. Often, two eyes and a smile were the only visible features. I felt as though I was sitting at a table with Mike and six cheshire cats. My camera experienced similar difficulties seeing in the dark. I resorted to focusing manually, and holding my breath for every 2-3 second exposure. Few shots were very good. Da Vinci would have been completely stifled.

About fifteen minutes into dinner, our nightly visitor showed up. Tink. Tink, tink. Tinkatinkatinkatinkatink. The sound of the rain on the tin roof added to the enchanting ambience provided by the lantern. Had we not been so accustomed to the habits of the rain, we might have been worried about having to walk back to our hotel in the downpour, but we knew that it would only last an hour. So we fellowshipped a while longer (sounds like a Big Red commercial) in the dark, and sure enough, the rain let up. What we were a bit worried about was still having to walk back to the hotel in the pitch black night over the very uneven, and now very muddy terrain. Little did I know that Juma moonlights as a matatu driver. Matatus are the white and yellow taxi mini-busses that flood the streets of Kenya. I had a handful of delightfully chaotic matatu experiences during my last visit with Ed, but very few this time. Tonight, Juma's moonlighting was quite literal. We loaded into the van, and bounced back to the hotel, very satisfied with the food, and with the work that had been done over the course of the week, but not without a few bittersweet feelings.

Pros and Cons

I remember getting so excited any time we had a half day at school. I think I enjoyed it even more than vacation days, because it promised all the benefits of enjoying the company of my friends at school with none of the liabilities of school itself, seeing as how the teachers never seemed to take half days seriously either. Today was a half day, but I wasn't so excited about it. Time with the pastors and working alongside Salome and Veronica has been wonderful, and I wanted to stay in school.

That's not to say I didn't have anything to be excited about. My day began with a trip to another market with Salome and Veronica aboard the boda-bodas. This time, our mission was to buy two more cows to give to local women. In contrast to the urban market we visited yesterday, the one we were headed for was to be a big open area in the country where a huge crowd congregates around a series of pens where cattle are bought and sold. Of course, all manner of street vendors would be there as well, selling all kinds of crazy things.

As we approached the market area, the boda-bodas took us off the paved street onto a dirt side road, which, in many places, was more mud than dirt, thanks to the daily rain. Just before reaching our destination, we had to cross a two-foot wide isthmus of semi-dry dirt spanning 30 yards of fresh mud. Veronica's boda-boda went first, and expertly navigated the narrow path through to the other side. My turn was next, and I was prepared for the worst, letting my feet off of the foot supports in case we started to topple. We got about half way across, and it became obvious that my driver wasn't going to make it, so I simply put a foot down and dismounted off the back of the bike. Finally, Salome's rider began to cross. When one is riding side-saddle, there is a harmless way to tip, and a catastrophic way to tip. In one direction, you simply land on your feet. In the other direction, you have absolutely no defense against falling on your butt. In Salome's case, it was the latter. Fortunately, it was a soft landing. Unfortunately, the softness of the landing was due to the particularly spongy concentration of the mud she landed in. Her driver was absolutely no help. He tended to his bike first - well, that is to say he tended to his bike only - and left her to fend for herself. After sending him away with an argument and no fare, Veronica pulled a blanket out of her purse (seriously, the world over, women have an uncanny ability to carry God-knows-what in their abyssal handbags), and Salome wrapped up after she had cleaned off.

The market was absolute chaos. We were met by one of the women who was acting as a liaison for the women's ministry there to select and reserve the cows. How she found us so quickly is beyond me. From somewhere in the vast crowd, a commotion broke out above and beyond the status quo of chaos. It seems a thief had stolen something and was trying to make off with it, pursued by a healthy sized mob of healthy sized men. Veronica explained to me that it happens frequently. After some chat, we left empty handed. I guess we would have left empty handed anyway, because one doesn't exactly embark with a cow in hand, but the point is that we didn't buy any cows. Apparently there weren't any for sale to our liking.

Back at the conference, it was nearly lunch, and things were wrapping up. Faustin was delivering his final remarks, in his typical passionate, yet profound style. When he had finished, he invited a few of the more respected pastors to say a few words in testimony, followed by me, and then Mike. It was my first time speaking in front of a group of Kenyan pastors (what a ridiculous statement - of course it was). It was also my first time speaking to a group with a translator. I've engaged in private conversation with a translator before, but never in front of a group. On the plus side, I think it went well. I don't remember stammering, and I do remember laughter. On the negative side, I don't remember what I said, so the laughter may very well have been in response to my stammering. It had leaked out that I am a worship leader, and of course, as enthusiastically musical and encouragingly welcoming as they are, they all tried to goad me into singing for them. Faustin came to my rescue and announced that I should do that later, so I got away scott free, because it was a half day, and later never came. After Mike's very gracious testimony, it was time for a group photo - something I know I got right. Unfortunately, the conference was over. Fortunately, lives were transformed. Unfortunately, it was our last night in Bungoma. Fortunately, I still have twelve more days in Africa.

Simple Delights

Somehow, in a foreign culture, things are more delightful. I tend to laugh at all kinds of things I probably wouldn't even smirk at back home. So does everyone else, it seems. Perhaps it's the influence of a heartily jocular culture. Perhaps it's the amplification of strange circumstances. Whatever the reason, the simple things really do make all the difference here. I'll make a remark about the kitchen arrangements being positioned differently than they were yesterday. Laughter. I'll wave at a child, sending him or her into hiding. Laughter. I'll attempt a word in Swahili. Uproarious laughter.

The kids continue to converge upon me any time I'm in their territory, which is everywhere except for the church building. I cannot imagine anyone in the world more delighted than these children upon seeing their pictures displayed on my camera's LCD screen. But even when I'm not entertaining them with the camera, they're absolutely thrilled by the simple presence of a muzungu. At times, an adult will attempt to corral them away from me, and I'm very tempted to rebuff, "Let the little children come to me" but I don't, either because I'd like to avoid blaspheming, or (more likely) because I know they won't understand me. One little dude - I hear him called Franco - loves giving me high fives. Low fives, double-fives, and bang-the-conga-drum style fives too. He'll come running up to me with his arm cocked over his head in the ready position. Franco is definitely my favorite, because his temperament is entirely unlike any of the others. Despite his enthusiasm for slapping five, he rarely smiles or speaks, and almost never laughs. He does tend to stare at me from time to time, but it's not a perplexed gawking stare, like that of those other kids who can't process the sight of me, and have trouble coming close. Really he just calmly watches me. When he does speak, he'll either announce my whereabouts to any and all who might like to join us, or he'll make quiet observations for me to ponder. Most of the time, however, he just likes to be near me. I'll be out and about, and he'll blithely follow me around, typically just taking in the environment I'm photographing. Then, without warning, he'll saunter off, not entirely unlike a cowboy just having foiled them good fer nuthin' bandits, helpin' our po' ol' sherrif, an' savin' all them dames were in that burnin' saloon 'fore it come topplin' down.

After tea time, Veronica, Salome and I hopped on a trio of bicycle taxis, or boda-bodas (the transportation service so nice they named it twice), in order to head out and document a few more of the ladies benefitting from the women's ministry. I have discovered that I love few things more than riding on the back of a bicycle driven to strange and unfamiliar places by a suspicious-looking Kenyan man I've never met. It's partly thanks to the thrill of the ride itself, partly thanks to the range of camera angles I'm able to get, partly thanks to the greetings I exchange with pedestrians, and mostly thanks to the sheer novelty of the whole thing. The women ride side-saddle because they're unable to straddle the seat while wearing dresses. Veronica is astoundingly comfortable as a boda-boda passenger. She hops on and off quite easily, and she'll have brief conversations with friends we pass and lengthy conversations on her cell phone. I'm guessing Mike and Salome have lengthy conversations with God the entire time.

We returned a little before lunch, and I found the children (or rather, they found me... immediately) all contentedly chewing on sugar cane stalks. I accepted the several stalks I was offered, but I was reluctant to join in on the tasting, because the samples I was given were ABC stalks (that's "already been chewed" for those of you who didn't go to elementary school in the 90s). Instead, I entertained the kids with alternative uses for used sugar sticks. A trumpet. A sword. A hat for Franco. More simple pleasures.

After lunch, novelties continued to abound. This little piggy went to market. Again led by Veronica and Salome, we visited a handful of women using their business loans to sell various goods in the open-air marketplace. It was like the photojournalist's 12 days of Christmas. Twelve vendors vending, eleven beggars begging, ten kids a-playing, nine donkeys braying, eight goats a-nnoying, seven people shouting, six people shouting, FIVE PEO-PLE SHOUTING, four boda-bodas, three fruit stands, two construction sites, and a white guy with a camera. I shot through three memory cards in a very short span, and didn't have time to stop and look at my results until later in the evening. When finished at the market, we hiked out into the countryside to visit a few more women, and they sky began to turn that familiar indigo hue. It was far earlier than the previous daily thunderstorms, and I began to wonder whether we'd finish our visits before everything in the world became wet. I half hoped that we wouldn't, for the novelty of hiking through the Kenyan countryside in the rain. As the sky changed colors, the light changed along with it. Late-afternoon-pre-thunderstorm light is the best. The rain began lightly just as we had finished with the last visitation of the day, and the nozzle on the shower-head in the sky didn't switch to deep-tissue massage until just after we had finished our mile-and-a-half walk back to the hotel. Perfect timing, and I was simply delighted as the rain cooled and refreshed our evening.

Small Groups

Faustin headed to Eldoret this morning with Salome to do some interview research for his dissertation at the local university. Without the task of documenting women in the Bungoma boondocks, I headed to the conference with Mike. And without Faustin to share the teaching load, Mike was tasked with teaching all day long. This meant that the pastors were bound to enjoy significant small group discussion time, because teaching all day long didn't seem like something Mike was quite energized to do. It didn't seem like something Tigger would have been energized to do on speed and Red Bull (especially if Tigger was still recovering from a 10 hour time change). Furthermore, small group interaction is a cornerstone of discipleship, so it couldn't hurt to have a little more of what had been built into the curriculum in the first place.

The conference rhythm swings between lecture-style teaching, small group discussion, and open response time. Mike begins each session outlining and explaining theological themes from the workbook. Then he opens the small group time by proposing a question or prompt. The pastors really thrive when it comes to the small group time. The Kenyan culture is intensely relational, and any opportunity for interpersonal connection is a delight. I had been under the impression that this style of small group discussion would be foreign to these Kenyans, thinking that because of the strong bonds of friendship they form in their already small churches, they would have had little experience splitting off into even smaller discipleship groups. Faustin ensured that they would be familiar with the practice, however, and whether familiar or not, they certainly enjoyed splitting off into the discussion groups. Eventually, Mike recalls them to a larger discussion, which is quite difficult, because Kenyans love to talk. They can't be too disappointed, however, because what follows is an opportunity to talk more. Before taking a break and getting into the next section, Mike opens up the floor for them to relate to the group as a whole what they discussed during the small group time. Inevitably, one will stand up and make a comment that gets everyone else buzzing, and before too long, the day is over.

There is another small group also in existence immediately outside the conference building. A throng of children assault me any time I step outside. Generally when I exit the building, it's with the intent of seizing a photo opportunity I've spotted from my seat inside, but I frequently miss the shot thanks to the chittering flock at my feet demanding that I immortalize them by pressing that small silver button on the strange black thing with the big eye that I'm always carrying around. Apparently, I am such a fantastic sight for some of them that they have no choice but to stare at me, dumbstruck. Others are too excited to contain their glee, and spout unrelenting streams of swahili gibberish at me. Typically, my response is to squat down, look them in the eye, and assure them as cheerfully as possible with as broad a smile as I can muster, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

At one point, right in the middle of taking a picture, I felt a hand reach over my shoulder to snatch my camera away. Turning, I recognized one of the pastors gesturing to me in an attempt to cajole my camera away. This is the same guy who claimed to be a prophet, foretelling Mike's eventual transition into full time missionary work, and has set a goal to build a church of 25,000 in Bungoma (Wisely, Mike queried, "Do you think that's God's goal?"). He has zeal, to be sure, but we're not entirely certain that his head's all the way in the game. Once I determined that he just wanted to turn the tables on me and take my picture, I relented. At the time, however, I was shooting with my long lens (for those of you to whom it means anything, it's a 70-300mm), and it requires a good distance between the camera and the subject, even at minimum zoom. So I wasn't surprised when he started to back up to get me in the frame. Surprise began to mount, however, when he continued to back up. And back up. And back up some more. He finally took the picture when he had reached the threshold between obviously intending to photograph me and obviously intending to make off with my camera. Apparently, he wanted me full-frame, with room to spare over head and under feet. Chalk it up to artistic intent... or perhaps to having a small group of hens loose from the coop.

Distant Frequencies

I've always been intrigued by the ambient sounds of a foreign place. When at home, I rarely notice the train in the distance, or the cars passing by, or the air conditioner whirring in the corner. They're too familiar. But the collection of sounds in Bungoma that the natives probably tune out for the same reason present a beguiling commotion to the unfamiliar ear. At night, the ambience is amplified.

For the third night in a row, the evening sky has apprised of an imminent thunderstorm. The heavens fade into a hazy shade of indigo, and distant clouds materialize. When the rain begins, it drizzles for a few minutes before the sky ruptures all at once and lets loose a torrential downpour. The rain lasts for about an hour every time, and the last 20 minutes are as if someone is very slowly and very steadily tightening a leaky joint in some faulty plumbing. More enthralling, however, is the interplay of lightning and thunder that follows. The lightning is so bright and sharp that it sets the entire sky on fire, and seems as though it must be only a few feet above. The thunder, however, stalls for such a long time that it must be miles away. Additionally, such a sharp strobe of light would seemingly call for an abrupt crack of thunder, but in this too, the thunder slyly misleads. Instead of a sudden clap, the thunder always seems to roll faintly as if the sky ate something it was having trouble stomaching.

Another midnight sound was not so easily identifiable. We knew it was either crickets or frogs, or perhaps both, but for the first night, we were unsure. On the second night, we had our answer when a frog vaulted its way into our room. Mike found it in the shower at first, but two mighty hops later, and it was across the threshold and under the desk. I think it must have sensed a kindred spirit here in the form of a one-legged frog prince. After chasing him around for a few minutes, Mike eventually caught him, and tossed him outside to croak all night with the rest of his buddies.

Perhaps the most intriguing sound in the distance is the sound of Muslim prayers being broadcast over loudspeakers from a nearby mosque. I don't remember this from my previous visit, and I really hadn't noticed many Muslims in Kenya. I know that a moderate percentage of the population is Muslim, but most of them reside in the larger cities - especially Mombasa, which is further East, and more within Islam's sphere of influence. We did pass a few small mosques on our bus ride, but they didn't seem well populated or well kept. I can't recall if I've ever heard these infamous daily prayers before. A few times each night they can be heard, sometimes bellowing militaristically, sometimes billowing melodically, and always muffled. While the broadcast prayers of the mosque are the most present, I'm even more conscious of another expression of distant prayers. Yours. The conference has seen many lives in the process of transformation, Mike and Faustin are managing the training with wisdom and grace, and my ankle is healing much more quickly than expected. Some distant vibrations, it seems, are louder even than the ambient sounds of the night.

The Corn Sea

So my last two posts ended with stomach-churning gimmicks, and I'm sorry for that. Hopefully I can buck that trend as I continue to chronicle my adventures, but I'm not making any promises.

Bungoma is surrounded by a sea of corn fields. To liken it to Easter Island alone in the middle of the Pacific would not be as much of an exaggeration as you might think. And if the corn fields are the ocean, then I was swimming for most of the day. My ankle did put up a bit of a fight, but considering that I'm the one with the will power to control the leg it's attached to, it was a fight I easily won. Today's project was to visit as many of the women involved in TLAfrica's womens' ministry as possible. Salome spearheads an empowerment program for the women of Bungoma through TLAfrica, and Veronica is her on-site manager. They have impacted the lives of dozens of women in the area by teaching them to read, enabling them to study Scripture, and by training them in micro-finance, enabling them to provide for their families, as many of them are widows. TLAfrica provides either cows or small business loans for these women. In the case of those who have been given cows, support is raised here in the states to purchase an animal for them, which they use for milk for their families and for selling. Several cows have given birth this year, which promises more income as the calves grow. In the case of those who have been given small business loans, they are entrusted with a sum of money that they are expected to pay back at the end of the year. Those that are successful in repaying the money are given more. Today, we visited 11 women involved in the program, 10 of whom live in meager mud huts nestled amidst vast fields of corn (the eleventh lives more or less in town). The goal was to interview them and document how their lives have been transformed thanks to the Lord's moving through this ministry. I followed Salome and Veronica over miles of footpaths through the stalks, and down roads enclosed on either side by 10-foot walls of corn. There is a giant corn mill visible from nearly any part of the city and the surrounding countryside standing as a testament to the industry of the area and a beacon of hope for lost travelers trying to navigate the maize (see what I did there?). I kept my eye on it for most of the day, knowing that if I stopped to take a picture and my corn sea sherpas lost me (a very likely scenario), I would only have to point myself in the direction of that midwestern monolith to find my way back to town.

During our trek, countless people - mostly kids - emerged from between waves of crops, seeming to materialize out of nowhere. I considered "children of the corn" as a title for this post, but this really isn't a horror story, and most of them are far more terrified of me than I am of them. Those that aren't are delighted to see a muzungu (basically, a white person), and even more delighted to have their pictures taken. The conventional American understanding of corn fields involves a farm house every few miles, and nothing but crops in between. I don't know what the corn-to-person ratio is in the midwest, but it's obviously quite a large number. The ratio here seems to be about 1. People in Kenya are as numerous as the corn, and just as ripe for the harvest.

Despite the abundance of corn all around, for the first two days I hadn't consumed a single kernel here until this afternoon. In fact, corn in any form is not even on the menu at the Hotel Tourist Bungoma. So it was strangely unexpected when we were offered corn by two of the women that we visited. Not wanting to be rude, I ate a cob's worth of corn at each place, and returned home unexpectedly full, having embarked on our voyage across the golden sea without anything to eat. Corn lunches were not the only gifts we were offered, however. On two separate occasions, a woman disappeared into a back room or into the yard and returned with a chicken. A clucking and flapping chicken. The first time this happened, it seemed very much as though the lady wished to present the chicken as a gift to me, personally. She also asked me when I was planning on visiting her again. It wouldn't have been so unusual if she hadn't proposed it to me as if my return was an absolute certainty, and if she wasn't living on an island in a sea of corn. The second time a chicken was presented, it was clearly meant for Salome. I thought this much more reasonable, and Salome handled both situations with grace, asking the women to bring the birds into town the next time they come. I'm sure Salome has little more use for a live chicken than I, and I'm secretly hoping that she'll wait a few days before devising some other occasional excuse to present one woman's chicken as a gift to the other, and vice versa.

There is an inverse relationship between possession and generosity, which defies logic. These people have so little, and they are so much more willing to share what they have, whereas those who have much are frequently reluctant givers. It seems to me that those who have little place great value on what they do have. This too, should logically lead towards closed-fistedness, but I believe that when you truly value something, you long to share it with others. Conversely, those who have much cannot concentrate enough value on any one thing to muster up a desire to share it. Of course, there is also the notion that those who have little are simply less tied to material things. This is also quite true. However, I think that considering generosity in terms of value placement seems a more compelling and more profound understanding of this phenomenon. (It certainly rings true when applied to the greatest gift ever given, which I long to share with the world...) Whatever the cause, these women, who possess so little, have more to give to the wealthy of the world than could ever be repaid in gifts of dollars, cents, or cows.

When Mike returned from the conference, he reported that the pastors are really digging into the material. It seems his harvest is just as plentiful, but he still hasn't been served any corn.