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.