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.