Anyone on a matatu will tell you, as you first begin a conversation, "We have a problem in Kenya. Corruption." No subtle hints at it, no innuendo, no passive voice like might be used with anything remotely sensitive. Hatred of corruption and disappointment at corrupt officials are no secret. No surprises there, corruption is a big money issue in Kenya--the ratio of our government officials' salaries to our GDP is one of the highest in the world, and the members of Parliament are trying to increase theirs before a new constitution can be passed removing this power from them. On the toilet side of our bathroom door (hence frequently read by me this year) is an oft-repeated slogan "US denies Kenya and Uganda aid because of corruption stigma." Breaking rules is big business.
A week ago I made a mistake. We were going to Hellsgate National park with some of the students--likely our last trip with them before we leave. As we were about thirty minutes away from home, I realized I had forgotten my passport! At national parks, the resident price is hugely cheaper (like 20% of) the foreigner price. And I can't exactly pass for a citizen. So I told Mr. Njire immediately. He said "We'll talk to them." And I smiled. I had been thinking I would be good for nothing but going back home and catching up later by matatu. But no such problems--at Hellsgate we did just that. He talked to them, and the guards said no. We talked more, and they said there was a way forward if the warden let me sign an occurrence book. So we tracked down the warden and annoyed her until we were in the park. Profuse thanks preceded a wonderful afternoon with the students.
We hiked down about 10 km to the gorge and stayed together as a group. Tuko pamoja--we are together. More on that later, I think. We spent more time than we meant to walking through and up out of the beautiful "gates of hell" and were late getting to Lake Nakuru (which is not exactly next door) but there, the boss ("mkubwa"lit. "big" but declined as a person) was more official. He was firm in his decision to not be loose with the rules. "Would they let you out of the airport if you said you just forgot your passport?" Well, no. But you could call my embassy and get it sorted out, maybe? I don't know. At Hellsgate, there was a way forward. At Lake Nakuru, I had to wait for the bus to return. It was my own fault--I knew price differences and that I'd have to prove residency. But I respect the boss' decision--I like rules myself. I just wish there were another way to sort it out.
Does corruption just mean breaking rules? When matatu drivers buy "a cup of tea" for the cop that pulls them over and sees they have no emissions documentation, are they not looking for a way forward? Is that any different from me entering a National Park without my documentation because we were annoying enough at the gate? Compromise is exactly that sort of breaking that is sometimes called corruption. But "compromise," as a word, remembers that you are breaking something to go to the other side, "corruption" sees only the broken thing.
See you on the other side.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
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.
"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.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Rule breaker
(Written a few days ago, but internet was down when we tried in Gatundu)
Searching for paper to start a fire yesterday, I came across my extra fund raising letters and information sheets--the papers I passed out at churches--and was free to use them. Thank you, dear supporters, for pushing me along. I am being transformed by the relationships I have here.
How does this work? I had a discussion about culture recently that made me look for changes in my spectacles. Here's the example we discussed(given by my friend and fellow teacher Maina).
A century ago, a certain African ethnic group thinks twins are cursed. So, they burn them or leave them out to die. A white man, upon moving to the area, sees this as a tragedy and adopts the ones left outside, rearing them as his own children, watching as they become upstanding, powerful members of the society that originally rejected them.
Maina's conclusion: they weren't cursed. The culture was wrong. I don't dispute that, but from an epistemological perspective, the culture doesn't learn this about itself naturally. I mean, if the culture's rules were followed, no one in the culture would be able to evaluate it. The "culture" of abandoning twins is only seen to be unnecessary when broken. Now, elders of this community have two options in this scenario: (1) continue as if the grown, intelligent, successful twins are still cursed, or (2) rethink the cultural stigma. This rethinking process is only made possible by the rulebreaking of the white man. You can't examine your glasses if you don't know where they start and your eyes end. This person, because of his culture's ethic, has given people an opportunity to examine their worldview. Breaking someone's rules were the only way to show
So here, I questioned a worldview yesterday when it sounded like someone wanted Kenya to become America. When I go home, I want to question Americans about progress without reevaluation of worldview. New eyes and a bigger imagination make better change. Without imagination, rich people moving to the suburbs decades ago engineered neighborhoods which can now only be reasonably navigated by car. People accept an hour commute by car every morning, but shun a 45-minute commute by foot. Without imagination, we get stuck with either-or political parties, both extremes offending sensibility. Imagination is sometimes the ability to see through conflict to underlying unity, to see a way forward to reconciliation. And new paths are sometimes only revealed when we observe the consequence of "breaking" the culture. But how do know what to break? I don't think we are ready to have our culture broken by running around naked. It has to be slow and halting--people don't listen to a stranger in a strange land. Change perceptions by breaking them perceptibly, not by completely changing people's ways of life and thinking. They tend to kill over that.
But maybe imposition is breakable--consider that as a point of contention. Our (Euro Americans') personal property and our time is so sacred that visits are limited to invitation only. I don't often hear of people (outside of a university setting or really close friends) simply dropping by someone's house to say hello or to ask a request, or especially to spend some days there. The overnight is the biggest imposition of all. Is it because we are so used to using our guest rooms as studies (which is convenient)? Do we worry that there's not enough cereal in the pantry for our guest's breakfast ($5 says there is)? No. Because we don't have to. Our culture says it's an "imposition," so we're not likely to receive unexpected guests and go without leftovers. But a gospel of abundance kills the overgrown American concept of scarcity of time. A gospel of community ends the individual's tyranny over house and homestuffs. So I encourage you, impose on someone this month. Within reason and especially within compassion, of course. Impose on someone to show them that you call them a part of your life. Give someone an opportunity to do so, and help them examine their cultural spectacles.
Anyway, that's some stuff I've been mulling over recently. As far as happenings, Josh and I had a nice visit to Meru to see Deanna and Sweetwater, a game reserve in Nanyuki. It was beautiful--saw my first elephant in the wild. It was small and feisty. Breaking a branch, it shooed our bus along the road away from its private munching grounds. I had no way to tell it we were not going to hurt it, especially while we kept roaring at it with our beefy engine.
Searching for paper to start a fire yesterday, I came across my extra fund raising letters and information sheets--the papers I passed out at churches--and was free to use them. Thank you, dear supporters, for pushing me along. I am being transformed by the relationships I have here.
How does this work? I had a discussion about culture recently that made me look for changes in my spectacles. Here's the example we discussed(given by my friend and fellow teacher Maina).
A century ago, a certain African ethnic group thinks twins are cursed. So, they burn them or leave them out to die. A white man, upon moving to the area, sees this as a tragedy and adopts the ones left outside, rearing them as his own children, watching as they become upstanding, powerful members of the society that originally rejected them.
Maina's conclusion: they weren't cursed. The culture was wrong. I don't dispute that, but from an epistemological perspective, the culture doesn't learn this about itself naturally. I mean, if the culture's rules were followed, no one in the culture would be able to evaluate it. The "culture" of abandoning twins is only seen to be unnecessary when broken. Now, elders of this community have two options in this scenario: (1) continue as if the grown, intelligent, successful twins are still cursed, or (2) rethink the cultural stigma. This rethinking process is only made possible by the rulebreaking of the white man. You can't examine your glasses if you don't know where they start and your eyes end. This person, because of his culture's ethic, has given people an opportunity to examine their worldview. Breaking someone's rules were the only way to show
So here, I questioned a worldview yesterday when it sounded like someone wanted Kenya to become America. When I go home, I want to question Americans about progress without reevaluation of worldview. New eyes and a bigger imagination make better change. Without imagination, rich people moving to the suburbs decades ago engineered neighborhoods which can now only be reasonably navigated by car. People accept an hour commute by car every morning, but shun a 45-minute commute by foot. Without imagination, we get stuck with either-or political parties, both extremes offending sensibility. Imagination is sometimes the ability to see through conflict to underlying unity, to see a way forward to reconciliation. And new paths are sometimes only revealed when we observe the consequence of "breaking" the culture. But how do know what to break? I don't think we are ready to have our culture broken by running around naked. It has to be slow and halting--people don't listen to a stranger in a strange land. Change perceptions by breaking them perceptibly, not by completely changing people's ways of life and thinking. They tend to kill over that.
But maybe imposition is breakable--consider that as a point of contention. Our (Euro Americans') personal property and our time is so sacred that visits are limited to invitation only. I don't often hear of people (outside of a university setting or really close friends) simply dropping by someone's house to say hello or to ask a request, or especially to spend some days there. The overnight is the biggest imposition of all. Is it because we are so used to using our guest rooms as studies (which is convenient)? Do we worry that there's not enough cereal in the pantry for our guest's breakfast ($5 says there is)? No. Because we don't have to. Our culture says it's an "imposition," so we're not likely to receive unexpected guests and go without leftovers. But a gospel of abundance kills the overgrown American concept of scarcity of time. A gospel of community ends the individual's tyranny over house and homestuffs. So I encourage you, impose on someone this month. Within reason and especially within compassion, of course. Impose on someone to show them that you call them a part of your life. Give someone an opportunity to do so, and help them examine their cultural spectacles.
Anyway, that's some stuff I've been mulling over recently. As far as happenings, Josh and I had a nice visit to Meru to see Deanna and Sweetwater, a game reserve in Nanyuki. It was beautiful--saw my first elephant in the wild. It was small and feisty. Breaking a branch, it shooed our bus along the road away from its private munching grounds. I had no way to tell it we were not going to hurt it, especially while we kept roaring at it with our beefy engine.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Update
Yes, I was in Nairobi this whole month. Yes, I was on internet every weekday working at Across. Yes, I was on Skype and facebook every weekend. No, I didn't blog. Sorry, folks. I did not feel like I had a ton to say. But I do have some things to report. So let me update you what I've been up to.
Hellsgate National Park! I've got pictures on my flickr, but I need to share some impressions of what was one of the most beautiful days of my life. Our friend from Gatundu, a retired ranger, led us on Good Friday through the park in a small van (mini-minivan--a boxy car with lotso seats). The park gate led us to the mouth of a valley, walled on two sides by steep cliffs, and punctuated by a volcanic plug, Fischer's Tower. Climbers went up and down the steep rocks of the tower as hyrax hid themselves when we approached walking. Continuing into the park on the main road, we spotted some Thomson's gazelle, the most common grazing animal in the park (as far as we could tell). The other side of the road had plenty of zebra. We continued up a hill to a campsite, and warthogs dodged out of the way of the van. Another massive volcanic plug--a cylindrical rock tower that belonged better in Shadow of the Colossus--stretched out of the valley floor to the height of the surrounding cliffs, which we had now climbed. The campsite on the cliff offered a view of the gorgeous green valley and the huge plug--Central Tower. We drove down, seeing more gazelle, zebra, warthog, and even buffalo way off in the distance with Josh's binoculars. The park also is home to a massive geothermal energy plant--a huge part of Kenya's power grid. We saw one of the ponds of waste water, the condensate of the 300 degree (celsius) steam that shoots through the pipes on its way to the turbine. The pipe was hot to the touch, and the water would have probably scalded me if I had tripped. On the way out, far off in the distance, Ranger James pointed out a couple eland.
We left the park in the early afternoon, with hopes to return--Ranger James said more animals come out in the evening (which probably meant "jioni"--kiswahili for after like 3ish), so Josh and I hoped to go back. We found cheaper lodging at the Y, rented some bikes from them, and did indeed go straight back. Biking around the park was a highlight of my life. We'd bike for a while then just pause and look around and try to keep our jaws from hitting the ground every few seconds. The gazelles were grazing--one small one separated from the herd and just ran, front and back legs moving smoothly and regularly like a machine, but one that can enjoy and display beauty. We continued biking, and the trail got sandier and worse. Less than a mile after we met a car going out of the park, the trail became impassable for vehicles, and we walked the bikes around six-foot pits. We spotted a few birds, some reminding us of the massive cliff-dwelling birds we had seen in the morning. The trees were scrubby--grass was the primary vegetation. We continued on the trail. At some point, there may have been a branch that we missed. We left the main valley, slowly going uphill for an hour or so. I think we left the park, even. The trail turned into a mere suggestion of a four-wheeler track, and we got off the bikes to take pictures of our attempt at progress. But right at that moment, we looked ahead to see the trees open up to pasture, filled with elands. These giant beasts are reportedly able to leap 9 feet into the air. Their antlers twisted up from their large heads. We crept closer, hearing them grunting at each other. But then they noticed us, and galloped away, shaking the ground with their departure. The way back to knowing where we were took us past more eland, more gazelle, more impala, hartebeest, and more beautiful clouds. But we decided on one more detour. Lost at the top of a mountain, we knew it would get dark soon. On the way down, we got stuck behind a Maasai leading his cows home. Or to supper. Dark was falling as we left the park, and we finally saw a herd of buffalo close. Three giraffes together regally crossed the road in front of us, and zebra were everywhere. As we tried to hurry home before darkness made the trail completely difficult, two little dikdiks bounced in front of us across the trail. When we left the park, it was truly dark. Cars helped us see our way on the road out, and we walked our bikes part of the way back to the Y, where we stayed.
The next day, we went to Lake Naivasha, where we spotted a beautiful Kingfisher, plenty of hippo doing all sorts of funny grunting things, waterbuck, wildebeest, splendid starlings, and some more zebra and impala. Then, back to the road. We went to Gatundu to pick up our things and went to Nairobi so we could celebrate Easter the next day, fresh with life and visions of beauty.
Hellsgate National Park! I've got pictures on my flickr, but I need to share some impressions of what was one of the most beautiful days of my life. Our friend from Gatundu, a retired ranger, led us on Good Friday through the park in a small van (mini-minivan--a boxy car with lotso seats). The park gate led us to the mouth of a valley, walled on two sides by steep cliffs, and punctuated by a volcanic plug, Fischer's Tower. Climbers went up and down the steep rocks of the tower as hyrax hid themselves when we approached walking. Continuing into the park on the main road, we spotted some Thomson's gazelle, the most common grazing animal in the park (as far as we could tell). The other side of the road had plenty of zebra. We continued up a hill to a campsite, and warthogs dodged out of the way of the van. Another massive volcanic plug--a cylindrical rock tower that belonged better in Shadow of the Colossus--stretched out of the valley floor to the height of the surrounding cliffs, which we had now climbed. The campsite on the cliff offered a view of the gorgeous green valley and the huge plug--Central Tower. We drove down, seeing more gazelle, zebra, warthog, and even buffalo way off in the distance with Josh's binoculars. The park also is home to a massive geothermal energy plant--a huge part of Kenya's power grid. We saw one of the ponds of waste water, the condensate of the 300 degree (celsius) steam that shoots through the pipes on its way to the turbine. The pipe was hot to the touch, and the water would have probably scalded me if I had tripped. On the way out, far off in the distance, Ranger James pointed out a couple eland.
We left the park in the early afternoon, with hopes to return--Ranger James said more animals come out in the evening (which probably meant "jioni"--kiswahili for after like 3ish), so Josh and I hoped to go back. We found cheaper lodging at the Y, rented some bikes from them, and did indeed go straight back. Biking around the park was a highlight of my life. We'd bike for a while then just pause and look around and try to keep our jaws from hitting the ground every few seconds. The gazelles were grazing--one small one separated from the herd and just ran, front and back legs moving smoothly and regularly like a machine, but one that can enjoy and display beauty. We continued biking, and the trail got sandier and worse. Less than a mile after we met a car going out of the park, the trail became impassable for vehicles, and we walked the bikes around six-foot pits. We spotted a few birds, some reminding us of the massive cliff-dwelling birds we had seen in the morning. The trees were scrubby--grass was the primary vegetation. We continued on the trail. At some point, there may have been a branch that we missed. We left the main valley, slowly going uphill for an hour or so. I think we left the park, even. The trail turned into a mere suggestion of a four-wheeler track, and we got off the bikes to take pictures of our attempt at progress. But right at that moment, we looked ahead to see the trees open up to pasture, filled with elands. These giant beasts are reportedly able to leap 9 feet into the air. Their antlers twisted up from their large heads. We crept closer, hearing them grunting at each other. But then they noticed us, and galloped away, shaking the ground with their departure. The way back to knowing where we were took us past more eland, more gazelle, more impala, hartebeest, and more beautiful clouds. But we decided on one more detour. Lost at the top of a mountain, we knew it would get dark soon. On the way down, we got stuck behind a Maasai leading his cows home. Or to supper. Dark was falling as we left the park, and we finally saw a herd of buffalo close. Three giraffes together regally crossed the road in front of us, and zebra were everywhere. As we tried to hurry home before darkness made the trail completely difficult, two little dikdiks bounced in front of us across the trail. When we left the park, it was truly dark. Cars helped us see our way on the road out, and we walked our bikes part of the way back to the Y, where we stayed.
The next day, we went to Lake Naivasha, where we spotted a beautiful Kingfisher, plenty of hippo doing all sorts of funny grunting things, waterbuck, wildebeest, splendid starlings, and some more zebra and impala. Then, back to the road. We went to Gatundu to pick up our things and went to Nairobi so we could celebrate Easter the next day, fresh with life and visions of beauty.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Share your food, dude
Eating and playing after praising our Lord,
The pastor gave me a disturbing word:
Some of the kids in this very lunch line
Would not eat again for quite some time.
Many come to church there just for the food,
They come for the table, is that any good?
These children's needs are easily met,
Some cheap pilau, some games, and they're set.
Of course we will feed the neighbors who come,
The rice was enough for firsts and then some.
But how shall we feed the affluent ones?
The doctors and lawyers, their daughters and sons
Have different hungers, more deftly concealed,
What vacancy is filled before it's revealed?
We share at the table like children, we say,
"The bread and the wine that we share today,
remind us of Jesus' life and his death.
Partaking, we too have death and new breath."
But somehow after our cannibals' fare,
I still have some room in my belly to spare.
I can still go to lunch, I still eat a full meal,
Eating with all of my usual zeal.
Perhaps the last supper is only our first,
Without filling our bellies or slaking our thirst
The living bread builds us ever more able.
We live life in the habit of sharing our table.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
