Final Retreat

That would be an epic name for a song. Maybe. I may or may not be listening to Muse right now.

But the blog will be not so epic. I will try to convey my excitement at what I saw and heard this past week on what was our final big fellowship and reflection time as a body of Young Adult Volunteers in Kenya.
Last week Monday we left on a trip from Nairobi. Taking the route through the path in the rift valley we traveled so long ago in September when we went to Nakuru to about human origins in Kenya. Our last road trip together stopped mirroring our first as we cruised through Nakuru, headed for the Masai Mara. Also joining us were Josh's parents and cousin and Phyllis, her daughter and two of her friends. We arrived in time for a nice lunch buffet, the first of a few consecutive eating sprees for me.
Then was the game drive. We drove around in these white vans with fun little expandoroofs that pop right up so you can stand inside with a roof still over your head. As we drove out over the Savannah, standing in our iron cage, we greeted gazelle and taupi grazing opposite zebras. A few giraffes were around the next bend, and colorful birds occasionally nearly missed crashing into our vans. As we drove more, we saw a few vans clustered around a tree. Approaching the tree, we saw some action under it--some lions were eating a wildebeest. The carcass was mangled and barely recognizable, but one mother and many cubs were still munching. As we looked around, we saw three females and at least 14 cubs in the area, mostly sleeping or eating. Another rock a short drive away had two male lions pretty near a whole herd of buffalo, trying hard to nap with 30 tourists in 8 vans taking snaps of their yawns. One van got stuck going down through a creek--the opposite slope was too sandy, and their tires sank in and spun. The occupants got a great view of the lions. They were less than thirty feet from the lions as they sat stuck in the sand. One of the other vans came by to help tow them out, but first a few vans made a wall between the front of the stuck van and the one towing. The drivers got out and hooked up the tow rope. It broke, but the second rope succeeded, and the passage across the creek was open again and more foreigners could gaze at the resting cats.
We continued like this for a while until it was time to come back to the hotel for supper. The lodge had times for feeding various creatures--bush baby food attracted a black fuzzball every evening and a bag of scraps brought powerful jaws and reflective eyes as creepy as in lion king, if not as red or polygonal. Hyenas are terrifying creatures--just the wrong shape to be a dog, just the right stocky shape to crush bones instead of work around them. And creepy enough to love themselves for it. Some jackals and mongoose came in to clear their leavings.
The next morning was an elephant morning! We saw many of the giant grazers gathering leaves, washing, and covering themselves with dust. We also found a cheetah in the tall grass. Another proud animal (but less scary than brother hyena), its long, lean figure twitched majestically as it pranced away from the annoying vans. Our afternoon game drive only lasted long enough to go jaguar-searching. We had already seen three (lion, elephant, buffalo) of the big five (missing jaguar and black rhino). As we drove out to a good place to usually find them, we saw a van going the other way. Our driver asked theirs if there was a jaguar behind them. They said "Yes, but it's asleep." Curse my Vulcan hearing, the others in our van did not catch this exchange because of volume or because it was in Swahili. But I got really excited. And sure enough, when we parked next to a bush, we were told there's a jaguar in there. But it was hard to spot. It took a wind rattling the bush--the branches moved in a way the brown spotted coat behind them did not. There it was, peeking at us on a lazy afternoon before the rain. We headed back to the hotel again when it rained, not disappointed at the day's finds.
The next day we left for the village. We traveled to visit Professor Ogutu, a prominent man in his community who had spoken to us about ethnicity during orientation. We stayed at his home and ate delicious food, Kenyan and non-Kenyan. It was better than the delicious buffets we'd been having at the Mara Sopa Lodge. He put us in touch with the nearby school, where we met people and painted a classroom. We met with his family, with people from the community, people from church, and students and parents at the school. It was a beautiful time. We even painted a whole classroom, together with people there. We would not have finished without the help of a few dedicated staff people at the school. Some people had big brushes, some had small, but we all worked together to make a white classroom with a mural on one wall. Our mistake was possibly not doing a skirt. It's fashion here to have a brown or black strip at the bottom of a wall. It imitates baseboard a bit, I think, and collects dirt a lot less obviously than the white does. But we did not have any paint for that. It was also obvious that there were people there at the school who could paint as well as and better than any of us. So we were glad to work together with them. But after an evening and the following day, it was time to leave Friday morning. Back to Nairobi we went.
It was a good time of fellowship with ample opportunity to ask questions of ourselves, like "What does it mean to have lived and served for a year here?" "What does it mean to be almost done?" It seems real now that we're leaving soon. And I'm over the guilt of being excited to come home. That is silliness--my excitement to go home does not insult the wonderful Kenyan welcome and culture. So I am in limbo for a few more weeks. Still stuck between the already and the not yet, waiting but present, here but leaving, happy in two places.

thick air

I fear it.
I try not to abuse it.
I swim in it, yet I do not see it.
I breathe it, but cannot detect it when I sniff.
I do not know how to live without it--certainly I would not be sending thoughts of my year in Kenya without a hefty dose of privilege.
Privilege has stalked me since I was young. Never the wealthiest in my class, I was often proud that those spoiled children with cable were so morally inferior because of their economic indulgence. But wallowing in that pride allowed me to look away from my great privileges of always having private schooling, always having two working, encouraging parents, always having good roads. Here in Kenya, some of the obstacles I've faced are perceptions of wazungu as privileged. Kids, instead of wanting to play, will practice the second English phrase they learned (second to "Hawayu," of course, the traditional greeting), "Give me 10 shillings." Beggar children in Nairobi and neighbors in Icaciri alike will ask this, because they see a mzungu and he likely has money. They don't look to see that we are dressed shabbily because we don't know how to wash clothes correctly. They do not see our unkempt hair and beards as signs of poverty. They just see a white person. With money.
The worst part about fighting this stereotype (still present among our peers and elders, but they don't just walk around asking for 10 shillings) is that it is truth. If you did not click the link in the last paragraph, click here. The very things about our appearance that I would think could say we are not privileged, because we do not care how we appear, reveal our privilege. The freedom to not care what people think is itself privilege. The freedom to think we are the masters of our realms is privilege.
It is the illusion of privilege to be the cause of the effects around you. "If you study, you succeed" is a story only believable in a situation of privilege. If you have a learning disability, the story is not about you. If you study, you might not succeed. But you're not the same kind of person. You have a named excuse for not being in complete control of your life. I was in a lovely argument yesterday with a determinist who knew these things well. A counselor and a student currently, he saw this inability to control outcomes as sufficient evidence for inescapable fate. I could not follow him all the way; I picture human existence as stretched across the gap of choice and chosen, waiting for the renewal of both internal and external worlds to bring will and outcome into harmony.
So beware of your guilt, America. Even your identity is not safeguarded against the necessity of interdependence in the world. Your wrongs and rights are not only yours, but shared. Beware the hubris of believing an ash cloud unjustly disturbed your plans or of crediting yourself for your academic success. You are privileged. Thanks be to God for granting you the opportunity to fly around the world or study to show thyself approved or drive a smooth road and not even know it. Open your eyes and see how you depend on the postal workers, the road workers, Immokalee tomato pickers, and uncounted hordes of drivers, cashiers, growers, policymakers, administrators, and children.
And continue to work. Because the farmer plants the seed, but does not make it grow. He does not know how it dies in the ground and releases from its belly tenfold or a hundredfold. Do not work on the factory model--successfully or unsuccessfully producing a product--try the agricultural model. Plant a seed. Speak true, loving words or invest in a child's life or actually plant a seed. Don't judge yourself on results, but hope for them. And work for them. Plow, till, but do not credit yourself with the growth. For as much as the farmer has a right to enjoy the fruits of his labor, he could not have prevented a drought. He did not awaken the sleeping seed to the rising joys of geotropism.
May the peace of Christ dream in your eyes new things today as you breathe whatever air in which you find yourself.

Huratiti

The year is moving faster and faster. Routine and comfort teach me how to not notice how I spend my time. But it wends inexorably toward late July, when I must needs move again, when I will fly high over the ocean to a mission field closer to home.
"Tundapaa juu (oweo)" sings the radio. One of the most-played songs since we've been here blares in a tinny Kiswahili voice a testimony of transformation. I recently had more of the song translated for me than ever before; on my own, I had only discovered it was a gospel song about flying high (tunapaa juu) and going places (tunaenda). What I learned recently was the story, which is conveniently present in the music video. The singer was born into poverty and a rough neighborhood. He gave his life to Christ and since then has been blessed with wealth and music, marked by a dramatic costume change. "Huratiti"--faster and faster the blessings come, higher and higher the Lord lifts the singer.
My initial reaction to this meaning was disappointment. Here's a decent Kenyan song with lots of play time, and it's just parroting the prosperity gospel. "If you're a believer," I heard, "you'll have a nice jacket like this guy." But when I complained of this to my desk neighbor in the staff room, he told me to give the guy a break.
"It's his testimony. Let him tell it."
And that's just it. It is his story. What would I prefer, that he took credit for his success? As much as the prosperity gospel is a plague, it is not the case that God does not want people to be successful. We need refined eyes to evaluate our success in God's light, but material success is a gift of God--giving glory back for that gift is essential. Rumor has it some study has concluded that Africa in general has grown much wealthier in the past 20 years, but not just the rich getting richer--there are more and more people sharing the wealth, so said this study. So more and more people have the opportunity to tell the story of how God has blessed them materially. The message does not have to be read as "if you are a good little Christian, God will give you that sportscar you want." It can just be "Thank you." It is a story of transformation, of the work of God. So I guess that's ok. But I still want to handle with care--it still rubs me funny.
Our handball team did really well this year. It was fun to watch a team that kept losing their "friendlies"--scrimmages with nearby schools--repeatedly beat larger schools that had discouraged us all season. We advanced a game away from provincials after a few weekends of tournament.
We have had a tiny visitor a few times recently. Sara from across the hall is now old enough to walk. She comes and plays with the Dora dominoes or the dinosaurs or the crayons, with a cute, pudgy, expressive face. Last term (before April) she was comfortable with us and we would go visit and play games with her. But then this term when we came back to school, she had forgotten these bearded wazungu and cried when we came too close. It was another period of getting to know her--she had grown a lot in that month, but now we observe more cuteness than ever before.
And I am transformed this year. Faster and faster approaches the day when I will return home again to measure such change. It is by no means the end of my exploration, but maybe I will know the place for the first time. To new eyes.