Indiana Jones and the Riders of the Loose Car

After a luxurious breakfast at the Methodist Guest House in Nairobi where Mike and I have been staying for the past two nights, we were picked up by Faustin and Salome in a taxi headed for the bus station. Today's 8-hour bus ride marks part one of a four part exposé on the inner dealings of the Easy Coach line from Nairobi to Western Kenya. It's a trip I'll be forced to enjoy three more times during my stay in Kenya. It's the same trip I likened two years ago to 8 hours of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland. I was told that it would not be like that this time, but I wasn't holding my breath.

The bus extravaganza began at the Easy Coach station, where they pulled an old fashioned shell game on us. Except instead of hiding a pea under one of three cups, they hid our luggage in one of three busses. We watched them load our luggage onto the bus headed to Bungoma, and then went to stand in line. Apparently, in the time it took for us to turn around and get in line for our bus, they moved one bus out, and backed our real bus into its place behind a third bus, and it wasn't until we were all about to step onto a bus to somewhere else that we discovered that we weren't in line for the proper bus. Of course this meant that we needed to ensure that our luggage was indeed headed where we were, and amazingly enough, they had it right. Pretty impressive sleight-of-bus if you ask me. After three Easy Coach employees asked me to take their picture and two of them tried to either buy or steal my monkey, we were under way.

You're probably wondering about my previous statement. I should have included Marvin the Missions Monkey in my cast of characters, but he was misbehaving at the time of my last post, so I had chosen not to give him the attention he wanted. Marvin is the representative of the Granada Heights Friends Church missions department, and I am his caretaker on this the first of what will surely be many travels to many distant lands. Someday, he'll have more mileage under his belt than that monkey the Russians launched into space, and with the added bonus of not being dead. He's quite adorable, and he knows it, which accounts for both his poor behavior, and his appeal to random (and unexpectedly bold) Easy Coach employees. Back to the bus ride.

For two-thirds of the ride, it seemed as though the promise of smooth sailing would ring true. Most of the road repair that was going on then has been completed, meaning that we spent much less time on dirt side-roads. This cut down immensely on the indianajonesness of the ride, but the ride wasn't over. We made our final rest stop in Eldoret, two hours from our final destination. After 10 minutes for a quick bathroom and snack break, we were called back to the bus, and the driver took off. One problem. Faustin had gone off to do whatever Faustin goes off to do during 10 minute rest stops, and no, there's nothing to read into there; Faustin often heads off to accomplish things while the rest of us are snacking and relieving ourselves. I'm sure he had accomplished 30 minutes of... accomplishments... when he was heading back to the bus, but the problem was that he wasn't physically on the bus when the bus took off. He wasn't emotionally, mentally, socially, or spiritually on the bus either. Mike and Salome put up quite a fuss, and we pulled over to let him on.

After Eldoret, the final two or three hours were still maddeningly bumpy. Between the absurd frequency of rather invasive speed bumps, the smart-car-sized potholes, and the unevenly laid asphalt (as if hastily glopped on by Lightning McQueen himself), there was almost no space between the bone-jarring bumps. Every part of the bus was squeaking or clanging, producing a cacophonous concerto of chaos, nay, a reverberating raucous rhapsody of ridiculous rattles that's as annoying as an avalanche of asinine alliteration. Either some poor sap needs to tighten every loose bolt and screw in the entire vehicle, or the whole thing needs to be dipped into a vat of WD-40. At one point, Mike pointed out how amazing it was that the bus was still intact. A small miracle indeed. Probably on par with that water-into-wine parlor trick. Without prompting from me, he also likened the ride to Indiana Jones, adding significant support to my analogy. Until this point, I had been entertaining myself by taking pictures out the window (yes, I took pictures out the window for 6 hours), but the funny thing about taking pictures is that you have to be able to hold the camera still enough to know what you're taking a picture of, let alone to get a focused exposure. So I decided to switch to reading. The funny thing about reading is that you have to be able to hold the book still enough to distinguish the words on the page from one another. So I decided to switch to sitting. I knew from experience that attempting to nap would result in the collision of my head with the window, so I didn't try that. Once safe in Bungoma, we stepped off, feeling as though we were still vibrating, as you may continue to feel the sway of the ocean after stepping off a cruise ship, but not so pleasant, and without the fond memories of just having been on a cruise.

Zzzzzz

In Kenya, the sound produced by the repetition of the 26th letter of the alphabet is just as likely to signify a mosquito in your ear as it is to signify a state of unconsciousness. Coincidentally, it's during that state of unconsciousness that you are most likely to have a mosquito in your ear. I have no idea whether or not there have been any mosquitos in our room (Mike says he saw one... but then he asked me what they look like... so...), but there has certainly been an ample supply of unconsciousness. We landed yesterday morning, and almost as soon as we made it to our hotel room, we were both asleep. I think Mike was up and down for a meal or two and an e-mail or two, but I can't be quite sure, because I've never been much good at knowing what's going on around me while unconscious.

I suppose it's time I introduced you to the cast of characters for part one of the story.

• Luke Payne. Narrator and protagonist. If you're reading this, you're probably already pretty well acquainted with him. If you're not, it's likely that you'll become well acquainted with him by reading this. So keep reading.

• Luke's ankle. The villain. Luke's ankle is causing significant strife, but his plans often backfire when he provides Luke with premium economy seating. He may win a battle here and there, but in the end, he will be defeated. Much like another familiar villain.

• Mike Sanborn. Sidekick. (Ok, I suppose I'm really his sidekick, but what do you expect when Robin is writing Batman's story?) Mike is the pastor to adults at Granada Heights Friends Church. A gifted theologian, Mike is bringing his knowledge to Kenya to share with some pastors involved with the organization TLAfrica (Transformational Leadership in Africa), headed by Faustin Ntamushobora. Over the next week, Mike will lead a series of seminars and small group sessions with these pastors focusing on discipleship. It's an issue that is badly needed in Africa, where many have been given bibles, and filled with a passion for evangelism, but left hanging when it comes to building transferrable and transformative relationships with others in the Kingdom of God. Mike doesn't sleep well on planes, so he has also been well acquainted with the letter z since our arrival.

• Faustin Ntamushobora. Faustin is the founder and executive of TLAfrica. He is the brains behind our involvement here in Kenya (to stick with the Batman anaolgy, he would be Alfred and Commissioner Gordon rolled into one), and was the one who recruited Ed each of the last two years as well. He is a brilliant evangelist, and a visionary when it comes to the methodology and philosophy of the advancement of the gospel in Eastern Africa. Perhaps due to the nature of his work and perhaps due to his time in the USA, he is also one of the most forward-thinking and scheduled Africans I have ever met. Of course he's still African, so his planning is very flexible, but the balance is quite amazing. In this and in many more ways, he is uniquely suited to the task of organizing the advancement of the gospel in Africa and communicating the needs of Africa to the West. Faustin's wife Salome, and his daughter Pelagie - both wonderful, delightful, Godly women - will probably show up in chapters to come.

• Almighty God. The only real hero. In the interest of avoiding a slew of schmaltzy clichés, I won't attempt to fit Him into my story. My story fits into His, which is found in another book. Go read that one while I catch some more "zzzzzz"s.

Frogger

We got off the plane at Heathrow and, of course, immediately had to spend some significant quality time hobbling up and down the switchback aisles of the customs line. Excuse me, in England, it's called a cueue. The last time I waited in a line like this, there was a 2 minute roller-coaster at the end of it. I remarked to Mike that I think these lines should be conducted Frogger-style with alternating direction escalator walkways. If you're not familiar with Frogger, it's an old-school computer game in which you try to hop a little frog across a busy street, avoiding cars, which, inexplicably are traveling in opposite directions every other lane, and then across a river which, even more inexplicably, has four alternating currents and logging facilities at both ends of the river providing an ample supply of log rafts. (If they need logs over there... and they need logs over there... you'd think a phone call would save them a whole lot of trouble.) Also inexplicably, you are controlling the only frog in the world who doesn't know how to swim. The end goal is to hop safely into one of several caves on the far side of the river without being eaten by the alligator. (I suppose it's a metaphor for life.) My concept is similar, except without the busy street, the alternating-current river, the caves, or the alligator. It's not on any moral or practical grounds that these elements wouldn't be included, mind you - I think it would be rather interesting if all lines featured such perils - but it's rather due to the fact that I doubt the bureaucrats who devise such lines would find these features cost-effective. Anyway, the idea is to have alternating-direction escalator walkways (like OK GO on treadmills...) that you ride slowly until you reach one side or another, at which point, you step forward onto the next escalator, and ride the other way. In the case of going through customs, your objective would be to jump off of the final escalator into an open customs kiosk. If you miss, you have to try again. Sorry, Gramps.

For a few days before our departure, I myself resembled a frog. No, I wasn't covered in slime and warts, but I was relegated to hopping everywhere I went, and my left foot had turned green. Come to think of it, I think a kiss from a beautiful princess might have done me some good. Instead, I seem doomed to a slow recovery from the one-legged frog state. My mom had taken to calling me "Dufflepud" after the one-legged creatures found in Lewis' The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. At least "Dufflepud" sounds better than "invalid". I've come to realize that being a dufflepud on intercontinental flights has some considerable advantages. I was moved to bulkhead seating for both flights, and for this flight, from London to Nairobi, I'm sitting in premium economy class, and I understand what it means to be treated like royalty. I have a leather seat with a padded footrest. I was offered sparkling wine before takeoff. I was given a menu, with three meal choices (and while the food on our previous flight met the considerably low expectations of typical airline food, the food on this flight was quite good). More sparkling wine. A choice of brandy or Bailey's Irish Cream. I'm literally one row behind first class and their ridiculous diagonal full recliner seats, and about 10 one-footed hops from the first class lavatories, but even those privileged enough to fly premium economy are not permitted entry into the realm of the first class lords and ladies. So instead of 10 one-footed hops, it's about 40 yards to the nearest toilet, located in the middle of the regular economy class dungeon. I can't believe I have to share space with those people, even for a momentary trip to the latrine. That's no place for a frog prince.

Release

I used to teach swimming lessons at Biola in the summers. When you are expected to jump into that water at 8am every morning to manage some bratty kids, each moment leading up to immersion is exceedingly precious. I would often reflect upon the moment of diving into the water - that fleeting second or two between when I would jump off the edge of the pool and when I would hit the water. Between the jump and the splash. Naturally, most of my reflection upon that moment would occur during the moment itself (you may not know this about me, but I possess superhuman powers of rapid reflection). I was frequently struck by the irrevokable nature of the leap. Soon, there would be consequences. Wet consequences. Wet and cold - thanks to that loathsome law of gravity. I could not return to the edge of the pool once I was falling through the air towards the water, and though, in the moment, I was warm, dry, and brat-free, nothing could prevent the onslaught to come. Yet in that same leap, there was great freedom and joy. To be momentarily free from the earth, spinning into weightlessness. The number of times per day that I would jump off of the high-dive is a testament to my love for that feeling. For me, there are few sensations that are as thrilling.

The moment between the action and the result is a strange moment. It's a moment that bears mixed connotations, and we're all familiar with it. For some, it means freedom. For others, it means fear. It always bears immediate consequences. I can prepare for years, but once I take the shot and release the ball, I have no more control over whether or not it will go in. I'm mixing metaphors now, but the point is that I am in the moment of release. I have prepared, but now I have little control over the inevitable result. My plane is in the air. While there are a few bratty kids involved, hopefully our landing will not also involve immersion in cold water. When I get off, it will be in Africa (well, first London, and then Africa), and there is nothing I can do to change that - nothing legal, safe, or reasonable, at least.

In reality, I know that we experience release many times every day, but this particular release is especially impactful. I'm sure that I will be more poigniantly aware of the subsequent moments of release that I will see during my stay in Africa - my current state of release is just the first of many I am likely to experience over the next several weeks. My relative affinity for physical thrills like the high-dive has not really carried over into other areas of my life. I've tended to cling to the status quo in areas of social, professional, and spiritual advancement, content to grow slowly rather than learn to swim by jumping all the way in or reluctant to let go of one branch until I've got a hold of the next (more mixed metaphors...). So while, this moment of release is perhaps equal parts freedom and fear, knowing that I will be confronted with more opportunities to jump in the coming weeks (or at least that I'll be more aware of the edge of the diving board before I step off of it) adds hope to freedom and fear. It's a good thing too. Without hope, who would ever have the courage to jump in?

Mice and Men

Well, I anticipated that the first installment of this series of blog entries would read differently than this. I'm not normally one who forms strong expectations and bases his responses to situations on whether or not those expectations are met, but no one is entirely without presupposition. It occurs to me that I probably ought not to have anticipated anything at all. The Lord does have a nasty habit of confounding our best-laid plans, yet strangely, my previous trip really was quite a lot like I had expected it to be. So perhaps I was set-up for a surprise from the beginning.

"Surprise" isn't quite the word that I would choose to describe the... mishap... that befell me three days ago, but it was unexpected. After months of planning, preparing, and fundraising, Kenya was a lock. I'm not sure exactly when it occurred to me that I might not be able to go, but it was sometime between when I landed on the side of my ankle, and when I was carried to the car half an hour later. Yes, I sprained it. Quite severely. It was during a volleyball game at the July 3rd picnic. I landed in a ditch in the grass. It sounds simple enough, but I have never felt pain so severe. I'm sure I'll upset a few women here, but there is no possible way childbirth is that painful. My eyes were open, and I couldn't see (insert spiritual metaphor here). When I finally could see, I looked down at it, and it was easily the size of a grapefruit. Then I was told that it had been twice that size at the peak of the swelling. Until the x-ray came back several hours later, I couldn't be sure whether or not it was broken, and therefore, I couldn't be sure if I'd be seeing the fruits of my planning and the resolution of my expectations regarding Kenya.

Yet here I am, moments from leaving on the trip I had planned for. The last few days have been chaotic and painful, and I have discovered that chaos and pain are mutually compounding. Packing and errand-running are made much more difficult when attempting to heal an ankle that was once twice the size of a grapefruit (so... a small cantaloupe?), and healing an ankle that was once the size of a large pumpkin is made much more difficult when attempting to pack and run errands. In spite of this (or more accurately, because of this), the power of prayer has been on full display. I was told that it would be many days before I could put weight on my ankle, and months for it to fully heal. There really is no reason I should be able even to hobble, to go anywhere without crutches, except by the power of prayer. To those of you who have been praying, thank you. It turns out that even our best-laid plans can't succeed apart from His power, so it can't hurt to ask Him to just take care of them in the first place.

MMXII

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

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

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

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

Footnotes:

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

b. - Jason Statham was played by Secretary Paulson.

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

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

e. - i.e. sheep

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

g. - Apparently the Mayans knew.

h. - Odds:

The Statue of Liberty 2-5

The Golden Gate Bridge 1-1

The Hollywood Sign 3-2

The Empire State Building 2-1

The Washington Monument 9-2

The White House 5-1

The Seattle Space Needle 8-1

Mount Rushmore 20-1

The Alamo 50-1

Canada 85-1

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

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

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

Nasal Selection

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

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

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