Indiana Jones and the Last Coach-ride

The pair of dueling baboons from my bed the night before last had moved into my stomach yesterday, and today they engaged in a vigorous and obviously well-matched bout nearly all day long. Needless to say, their presence in my stomach was not helpful during a very bumpy 8-hour bus ride punctuated by only three restroom breaks and zero toilets. We took the Easy Coach back to Nairobi, and I can't quite decide whether to be disappointed, relieved, or disappointed about it. Ryan had promised us a ride on the mid-level bus line that hauls all manner of people to and from all manner of places, stopping along the side of the road for bartering with local vendors. Since the prospect was first introduced to me in 2009, I've been looking forward to my third-world bus experience with chickens on my lap and pigs at my feet surrounded by shouting natives, and once again, the novelty escaped me. On the other hand, in my current state of intestinal agitation, I doubt that my coveted bus experience would have been much fun at all. On the other other hand, we were still on a bus, when we could have been on a shuttle like the one that brought us here in the first place, which would have been much faster, much smoother, and much more likely to make emergency baboon-in-the-stomach stops (or look-there's-an-actual-baboon-on-the-side-of-the-road stops, for that matter). While I'm certain that the length of the ride was intensified by my personal discomfort, it was nonetheless the most uneventful of my four trips to or from Western Kenya.

An uneventful ride, however, does not necessarily amount to a ride bearing nothing about which to write. After all, the roadside is speckled with all sorts of hapless misappropriations of english, making this a perfect opportunity for the obligatory "look-at-how-you-people-butcher-the-english-language-even-though-we'd-butcher-your-language-even-more-if-we-tried-to-use-it-but-we-don't-have-to-because-everyone-in-the-world-should-speak-english-so-we-get-to-ridicule-you-all-we-want-ha-ha-good-fun" post.

Adventures in English on the ride from Webuye to Nairobi begin before you even set foot on the bus. Right next door to the Easy Coach station is the Website Inn of Webuye (as opposed to the Website Inn of anywhere else in the whole wide world). While I'm told that they make excellent food, I seriously doubt that they have a website. Roadside establishment commonly boast of being hotels, nevermind the fact that the most desperate of travelers would still probably rather sleep in a ditch. Perhaps the second most common of roadside enterprises are the butcheries, such as Destiny Butchery. Shrewdly, the owners of Destiny Butchery have omitted the details of whose destiny is implied, and just what that destiny entails. Frequently, however, the two coincide, as there are numerous Hotel/Butchery signs, and I assume that this is something akin to having a meat pie store downstairs from a barber shop.

Wherever signs are displayed, they are loud and proud. We passed a freeway overpass bearing an advertisement for Turkey Driving School, where the participants are either large birds, or people about to be shipped to the Middle East. A large banner near ByGrace advertises for an Irish Dentist. I had to fight the urge to schedule an appointment, considering that I haven't been to the dentist in years, and everyone knows that the Irish ones are by far the best thanks to the whiskey and Lucky Charms.

Mottos are also local favorites. On the back window of a local bus was a sticker reading "We do our best." Outdone only by a hotel slogan moments later boasting "Better than the best." Having a motto is so highly regarded, that many establishments with mottos will not only feature the motto below the name of the enterprise, but alongside the slogan will proudly feature the label "Motto". One of the pastors in Bungoma, Judy, helps run a school, boldly displaying above the door "Motto: Education Has No Age Limit." Another favorite was the Baptist Precious Academy, with a sign reading "Motto: Paramount and Excel." Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe that in this case the word 'paramount' would have to be a verb. It's not. Certainly the favorite, however, is a favorite as much for its name as for its motto. PMSGroup, in Nairobi, features a slogan reading "All Round Marketing Expertise". It is to the credit of their marketing expertise that their slogan does not actually have its own label. However, I can't help but wonder if the marketing expertise is being offered by cantankerous women who are "all round".

Despite all of the misuse of language, I must say that the writers maintain the highest degree of politeness. In the US, when you're not wanted somewhere, a sign will simply say "no loitering". One gate not only provides loiterers with a notice, but explains that the notification is as kindly stated as possible. It reads "Polite Security Notice: no parking or waiting around this gate". Even bathroom stall graffiti - notoriously the filthiest, most offensive form of written expression - is polite in Kenya. Scrawled into the door of my stall was a chicken-scratch inscription reading "enjoy relieving yourself thanx come again."

Many decorative posters for homes or restaurants also display English prowess. I recall a beautiful picture of two regal-looking, elegantly feathered birds with an inspirational message reading "The great thing in this world is not so much where we are but in what direction we are moving." Not bad, barring some ambiguity and issues with syntax. Not to be outdone, another inspirational poster (which just might have been a rip off of the 'demotivational posters' series, except it was just poorly designed enough to imply seriousness) read as follows: "Best of Luck: unconditional love may fail, but love with conditions doesn't even have a chance."

But while I'm on the subject, I must take us back in time to the Hotel Tourist Bungoma, where Mike and I stayed during my first week here. The menu at our dear hotel is the winner, hands down. Before you embark on this culinary and literary journey, I must emphasize that these menu entries have been transcribed verbatim, and there are absolutely no typos in the excerpts you are about to read. Under the "Pastries Corner" it reads: "Pasties whispering is the ecstasy chocolates flavored muffins sticky goodnite tasteful." Also, apparently 'Hot Dog', 'Meat Pie', 'Vegetable Spring Rolls', 'Chicken Spring Rolls', and 'Beef Sausages' all qualify as pastries. In the "Burgers of Your Choice" section, all items come served with the following accoutrements: "Topped on the incebergs Frenchfries and sweetened with the Magina of glazed Tomato Sauce and Sandwitched with vegetables in sason and dressed salads." I've no idea what "the magina of glazed tomato sauce" is, but if it's an attempt to make something marginally appealing sound terrifying, then congratulations, HTB, it sounds terrifying. Among the items of the burger section, the fact that you can order a 'Beef Burger', 'Chicken Burger', 'Ham Burger' (strangely, this really ought to be the proper usage of the term), or 'Vegetable Burger' suggests that if you are to order either the 'Cheese Burger' or the 'Cheese/Onions Burger', your order will include a patty that is actually made entirely out of cheese or cheese/onions, respectively. If you're in the mood for a burger, but not one of the variations listed above, the final menu item in the burgers section - and by far the most expensive - is a "Plate of romantically garnished Bacon". Tell you what, HTB, I'll enjoy a late night rendezvous by candlelight with your garnished bacon so long as you hold the Magina of glazed Tomato Sauce. Finally, the "Chips" section (in case you've forgotten, 'chips' is just British nonsense for 'french fries' - the Hotel Tourist Bungoma does not, in fact, have a section of their menu devoted to an assortment of Tostitos, Doritos, Fritos, and Cheetos, although it wouldn't surprise me that much). If you order any of the items from this section, get excited, because you'll be enjoying your chips "Erected like Ruwenzori mountains on the plate and garnished with dressed salads depicting the slopes of Cherengani hills."

I simply have nothing left to say remotely worthy of adorning that. What an absurdly disjointed blog post. I blame the baboons.

Poured Out

Last night, it hit me all at once. I felt fine as we played some games in the hotel lobby, and as I posted some blogs and took my nightly malaria medication, Malarone. Just as I was about to get in bed, I was struck with a heavy flu feeling. My whole body ached. I was freezing, but my skin was on fire. My head pounded. My stomach was mutinous: all symptoms closely resembling those I understand are consistent with malaria. As far as I know, I still had no mosquito bites, so, in addition to being miserable, I was also perplexed. How the malarkey did I get malaria? I pulled myself into bed, bundled up in the sheets, prayed with all of my considerably diminished might, and fell asleep cursing the name of Malarone. I slept through most of the night, waking up only once, but when I awoke this morning, I felt as though I hadn't slept at all. The state of the bedsheets suggested the same. The bed looked like it had been the battleground for a pair of dueling baboons. Battlegrounds live unfortunate lives. (Ok, so they don't live lives at all... because they're battlegrounds... but if they did, their lives would be unfortunate.) They have no say in the matter of who the battle-waging contestants will be, and little influence over who will be victorious, yet, when the battle is over, they are often as decimated as the defeated party. Thus was the state of my bed, and thus was the state of my body. Miraculously, I felt no more aches or chills, but I was completely exhausted. God and Malarone had been victorious (yes, I will continue to operate under the assumption that I had malaria for one night). Praise the name of the Lord, and bless the name of Malarone. Reluctantly, I climbed into the shower - after having vowed never to 'shower' here again - and I felt very much like the empty cup I was about to use for the purpose of repeatedly pouring frigid water over my head.

I wasn't the most lively of breakfast companions, and I didn't eat much. After breakfast, Ryan gave a short devotional from 2 Timothy. Most of us are familiar with Paul's words about fighting the good fight, finishing the race, and keeping the faith, but I think we often forget to consider the passage in context, as we often forget with passages in general. Just a verse before, Paul writes that he had been poured out. He was at the end of his life, and at the end of his ministry. Apropo, considering that I felt as though I had just narrowly escaped the end of my life, and our team had reached the end of our intended ministry. Today was to be our final day of actual missions work; from tomorrow on, only traveling and a handful of miscellaneous excursions remain. Though I had not the energy to express much appreciation, Ryan's words came as a timely dose of encouragement. I had precious few drops left to pour out, but this being our final day of ministry, it was a good time to tip the cup upside-down.

It wasn't long before the tipping of the cup began. I was too exhausted to feign excitement, and too duty-driven to skip out on the final day of pastors' training. After slumping through one of the lively Kenyan worship times I'm normally quite fond of, I slumped through some of our team teaching (each team member is responsible for teaching a section of the training). This particular section, however, was one of those followed by small group time, at which point my slumping ceased, due to the fact that I was needed to lead a small group of pastors. Slumping resumed shortly until it was my turn to teach. My section of the teaching is the section regarding discipleship and follow-up, which necessarily comes last, because you can't train people on how to follow-up with something until you've taught them how to do something that requires follow-up. It has been a blessing to teach the discipleship section, especially after having recently been subject to Mike's endless ramblings on the very same subject. But discipleship comes after evangelism, and since the training is largely evangelistic in nature, I was the closer. And like Jordan dropping 38 with the flu, or like a hobbled Kirk Gibson knocking it out of the park in his only plate appearance (it's no coincidence that the examples I've chosen, while modest, reflect my own physical limitations), I sealed the training brilliantly. At least I did so in my head, probably thanks to my malaria-induced stupor. I was speaking with a translator, and while he didn't seem to be having trouble interpreting my undoubtedly slurred speech, he was speaking in Swahili, so he could have been saying anything for all I know.

After eating a few bites of lunch (which I stomached reluctantly, only because I knew that I was supposed to eat, and because I knew that if I didn't, I'd be pestered to do so by one or all of the women on our team), it was time for the final day of sports camp. Nothing like a little bit of exertion to squeeze the last few drops of energy out of a tired body. Of course, I am making it out to sound far worse than it was, and the camp ran very smoothly, but I was pretty exhausted. When we gathered the kids together for the salvation message, the recently clear skies had turned many tumultuous shades of gray. Ryan invited them to accept Christ, and approximately all of them stood up. It was a Christian school, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was genuine for a few of them, and peer pressure for many more. Interesting to think that in the US, it's usually peer pressure keeping the kids in their seats, not prompting them to stand. The first few drops of rain began to fall as we finished our final prayer, and before long the heavens were pouring out grace on a bunch of weary servants and a few excited children, new to the family of God.

Home Sweet Home

I am frequently astonished by the overwhelming number of people we encounter. As they had during my excursion through the corn sea during the early part of my trip, they continue to emerge seemingly from nowhere. Western Kenya is an endless field of small farms, and we've never been more than a few miles away from the main road. While I wouldn't be surprised to find that a higher percentage of people accumulate near the primary travel corridors, I wouldn't be surprised to find that families still manage farms and form communities hundreds of miles from civilization. Home, it seems, can be anywhere. Yet somehow, what does surprise me is how in the world people can survive in the world without microwaves and washing machines. I've never been diametrically opposed to roughing it in rural environments, what with extensive experience camping in Baja, but I've always known the luxuries of the American life. (I'd be happy - for a while - to live as simply as many people do here; what I find offensive is the illusion of luxury slapping me in the face when I'm presented with a perfectly normal shower and then expected to pour cold water over my head with a cup.) At one point, even the American life didn't include the luxuries of the American life. The world is much smaller than it once was, but not to the people of Western Kenya. These people have never known luxury of any sort, but they are comfortable with what they have. I think we've corrupted the sentiment "home is where the heart is". What we really mean is "home is where the comfort is". While in many cases, the heart resides where comfort is found, comfort is certainly not all that entices a heart. If it was, I wouldn't feel as I do - regardless of comfort, I do feel at home here.

When you haven't seen home in 15 years, it must be eerie to return. Stranger still when the home you haven't seen is thousands of miles away and part of a culture entirely different from the one you have been living in ever since. I have no personal frame of reference for such an experience, but such was the case for Dan today. Dan was born and raised just a few miles from our home base for these three days in Webuye. He lived here in the neighboring town of Lugulu until he was four years old, when his immediate family moved to Nairobi, where they lived until he was nine. While growing up in Nairobi, he would visit extended family in Lugulu on a relatively frequent basis, until they moved again, this time to the US. Following that move, Dan had not returned to his home town until today. It was an honor to be a bystander at his homecoming.

We were met by Dan's cousin Alan after our sports camp at the school. From there, we chartered a matatu and embarked on a very bumpy ride over the dirt roads in the hills above Webuye. We got out and walked for a few minutes over what would have been an even bumpier dirt road. We arrived at a beautiful clearing overlooking the entire valley where Webuye sits. Sitting opposite one another on a very green lawn were a very large tree and a very quaint house. Dan snapped several pictures (perhaps the only moment during the trip when someone else took as many pictures as I did) before greeting his aunt with a big hug. We were invited inside and ushered out the back the back door soon thereafter for a tour. In Kenya, being given a tour of someone's home usually entails being shown around the grounds rather than being introduced to the rooms within the house. So we were taken outside and Dan pointed out the outhouse where he used to do his business, and the cooking room where the business he was to do was prepared. Beyond the satellite buildings, the corn fields began. Dan remarked that he didn't remember the view being so amazing, to which I replied "at the time, you may have had trouble seeing over the corn." I was amused to see Dan (who is notorious for his general lack of any sort of facial expression) obviously experiencing wonder and nostalgia and humor all in rapid and expressive succession.

After our tour, we were treated to dinner. We had planned on visiting briefly and returning to a local restaurant for dinner, but we had been visiting for a while, and little did we know, dinner was on the way. Recessed into the countryside even farther than we had been, in a rural Lugulu home, I hadn't been expecting anything beyond what I had grown accustomed to. But we were provided with the most delicious meal we had eaten for days. It did consist of the staple menu items, but everything was just a little better than usual. The meat was tender, the rice was flavorful, the potatoes were perfectly cooked, and the chapati was even better than I had tasted before, which I hadn't thought possible. Even the tea was a perfect balance between milk, water, and flavor. I can understand why Dan has such fond memories of this place. Even complete strangers eat like kings. We left for our hotel perfectly satisfied, and feeling that there really is no place like home. And for an evening, I didn't miss American food at all.