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.