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.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Out of reach
Yesterday we had company. They were the best kind--the kind who brings their own meat and ugali from your favorite eating place. We needed a bigger plate, so I went to get it from the kitchen. Walking back to the living room, I held it a bit too casually, and soon bits of it were all over the hallway floor. I was angry, realizing I had just the one chance to fail but could have used the plate many more times if I had succeeded in safely transporting that porcelain (or some cheap plasticky version) disc to the living room.
It passes us by all the time. Sometimes we notice, sometimes it catches us sleeping. But the moment is ever within our grasp as it ever evades.
A month ago, I wrote a blog post. Then, some time after (which reminds me), it is today. Now. Of course. But time's Hermeneutical wings have carried it faster than I expected, and another term is coming to a close.
Here, we take three months on, one off. Jan-March, we've had classes and life at school. April will be our break. Next week are our final exams already. I like the new students. They are very childish, not yet molded by their uniforms. Their first grade this term will be our final exam, a welcome into the easily failed setup of the school. We will see how well they do. They can't always distinguish the rules of adding and multiplying positive and negative numbers.
Peace, my friends. Grasp it.
It passes us by all the time. Sometimes we notice, sometimes it catches us sleeping. But the moment is ever within our grasp as it ever evades.
A month ago, I wrote a blog post. Then, some time after (which reminds me), it is today. Now. Of course. But time's Hermeneutical wings have carried it faster than I expected, and another term is coming to a close.
Here, we take three months on, one off. Jan-March, we've had classes and life at school. April will be our break. Next week are our final exams already. I like the new students. They are very childish, not yet molded by their uniforms. Their first grade this term will be our final exam, a welcome into the easily failed setup of the school. We will see how well they do. They can't always distinguish the rules of adding and multiplying positive and negative numbers.
Peace, my friends. Grasp it.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
A way out
The Kenyan dairy farmers have had a bumper year. It's been the consensus among the farmers in the know that dairy cows have recently become more profitable than traditional cash crops--which in Gatundu district means coffee. But with the nice rains and the fast-traveling news of the bandwagon, there is too much milk. The dairy association cannot buy all of it. Some is just going bad without ever leaving the farmers. Our prayer this morning in church was for God to give the farmers a way out.
Many times when I am scared that I won't finish something, I think of ways out. The train was good for that at Emory. "If I hopped on the train," I would think to myself, "I could be halfway across the country by the time my paper due and my teacher notices my abscence." But I dismissed such thoughts every time. As important as it is to cultivate creative responses to struggles, that crosses the line to escapism. But isn't that what God gives us? An escape? A lifeline? A place to run to when the world presses in?
"Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden," Jesus says, "and I will give you rest." Read on: "My burden is light and my yoke is easy." We have a way out plain and simple. Come to Jesus and what do you get? A yoke. You get strapped in to a plow to work. The escape of slavery is labor. You don't escape slavery by being your own master, but by choosing your master. Because the human heart is a shrine for a master. A factory of idols, JC the lesser said.
But anyway, I usually see the gospel not as a way out but a way forward. When God opens a door, it goes somewhere. When Jesus quizzed Peter about love, the response was not "today you'll be with me in paradise," as it was for the man condemned, but "feed my lambs." It continues a path of discipleship. The hope of Christianity is not escapist, but redemptive.
I need to seek ways to express this. Part of it can be in my relationship even to myself. A pursuit of excellence (whether in music, fitness, teaching skills, Kiswahili) better reflects the glory of a God redeeming his Creation than mediocrity. And God gives us grace to pursue such things. That's my next project--avoiding mediocrity. Dr. Nelson of Emory Concert Choir, thank you. I was dubious before when I heard you attempt to incite us to abandon our lack of effort, but now I follow your argument a bit better. Mediocrity is not acceptable. Excellence has many forms, just as people do--we must use our own unique gifts and talents, not cookie-cutter ones. This is the way forward to a diverse future.
Love you all.
Battery dying.
Peace.
Many times when I am scared that I won't finish something, I think of ways out. The train was good for that at Emory. "If I hopped on the train," I would think to myself, "I could be halfway across the country by the time my paper due and my teacher notices my abscence." But I dismissed such thoughts every time. As important as it is to cultivate creative responses to struggles, that crosses the line to escapism. But isn't that what God gives us? An escape? A lifeline? A place to run to when the world presses in?
"Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden," Jesus says, "and I will give you rest." Read on: "My burden is light and my yoke is easy." We have a way out plain and simple. Come to Jesus and what do you get? A yoke. You get strapped in to a plow to work. The escape of slavery is labor. You don't escape slavery by being your own master, but by choosing your master. Because the human heart is a shrine for a master. A factory of idols, JC the lesser said.
But anyway, I usually see the gospel not as a way out but a way forward. When God opens a door, it goes somewhere. When Jesus quizzed Peter about love, the response was not "today you'll be with me in paradise," as it was for the man condemned, but "feed my lambs." It continues a path of discipleship. The hope of Christianity is not escapist, but redemptive.
I need to seek ways to express this. Part of it can be in my relationship even to myself. A pursuit of excellence (whether in music, fitness, teaching skills, Kiswahili) better reflects the glory of a God redeeming his Creation than mediocrity. And God gives us grace to pursue such things. That's my next project--avoiding mediocrity. Dr. Nelson of Emory Concert Choir, thank you. I was dubious before when I heard you attempt to incite us to abandon our lack of effort, but now I follow your argument a bit better. Mediocrity is not acceptable. Excellence has many forms, just as people do--we must use our own unique gifts and talents, not cookie-cutter ones. This is the way forward to a diverse future.
Love you all.
Battery dying.
Peace.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Comfortably Numb
My fever was over 100, I discovered Friday on my phone's unit converter after leaving the nurse's room. I then waited to be called to the doctor with the other ER patients. I sat and had some fizzy fever-reducing tablets. Earlier in the day, I lay out in the sun because blankets in my room weren't warm enough, but equatorial rays toasted me comfortably. I was nearly Pink on one side before I turned my head--gotta keep both cheeks even. "Hello?" I'd been called and couldn't quite hear the directions over the loudspeaker. Hesitantly walking to the door I thought I was supposed to go through, a doctor quickly found me and sat me down. He checked things off the clipboard as we talked, and gave me a ticket to go to the lab and get tested for...malaria. Oi. So back to the waiting room I went to queue at the barely-manned counters. I prevented fainting by sitting down on the floor for part of the wait. It was nice and cool. And not even wobbly, like it looked from far away. But eventually, I got to the front, paid my dues and headed for the lab.
Just a little pinprick and an hour's wait for results, and it was back to the doctor. No malaria. Grr. I was almost disappointed. I'd had a bad fever for the whole day, a debilitating illness, and it's just an infection? Not even one worthy of cipro? I went home with my amoxicillin and tylenol, happy to have found the simple solution and wondering if it was mostly in my head.
When I was a child, I had a fever. When it was pretty springtime (or occasionally in the fall) and the flowers of Minnesota or Michigan woke to greet the world, I would be ill. Sinusitis would take over my breathing for a couple days, but invariably I would miss a week or two of school. Every morning I would feel terrible and not able to go to school. Then, a couple hours later, I'd wish I weren't "sick" so I could go ride bike or play. In the evening, I'd be almost well, eating and joking, but then after dinner I would begin to deteriorate, sniffly and pitiful as I went to bed, not expecting to go to school in the morning. I often wonder how much of that was my own expectation interfering with my body's healing. Did I expect to be sick in the morning? Did I want to just skip school for a week?
Back at school today, I feel and act fully recovered, but I wonder out of habit, is it real? Did I really just get better immediately from my terrible sickness? I know that's what antibiotics do, but was I really needing to be that sick? I probably exagerrated a bit. But then I devalue my own experience, my own feelings about it at the time. I cannot function without trust in my senses, but I know they're broken, too. I don't perfectly see the world. I've got all these bits of me between me and das Ding an sich, that I'm just used to looking through. My eyes cover themselves. But experience is real, perception is real. "Is there anybody in there?" I have to assume you are real, too. For sanity's sake. But I must question my self-deceit, as I seek to live and experience and perceive truly and fully. I must tell myself truth if I am to tell others anything like it. Devaluing experience in general leads to escapism or Buddhism. If the world was good, if very God calls it so, I wish not to escape this world but to purge my illusions about what is truly good. To shine light. But I can't even tell which parts are false, whether I'm doubting unnecessarily or convalescing overmuch. I want to make sure I am not avoiding the world for the sake of escapism or timidity, but I need fresh eyes to see which parts are worth surgery.
Just a little flavor of the philosophical stuff I like to play with. I trust in the light, which will bring all things into itself, into knowledge of self, other, and God. God's good world is all around us, but it is broken. The world is beautiful, good, enjoyable, but we must not affix ourselves to the brokenness but to God's repair. He's still working on me--I'm not done dying--kids under construction--this is not how I am--Christian soldiers...with the cross going on before. "Behold, I am making all things new."
I saw a bright kid the other day who had just been given enough money to attend secondary school. I saw a poor mother who had just come to the hospital with no money for pills, but she was grateful for her son's diagnosis. I saw a bullying episode defused by a few quick words. I read a packet on proposed changes to Kenya's Constitution. I am glad to not be sick anymore, because I miss things when I'm distracted by myself.
Just a little pinprick and an hour's wait for results, and it was back to the doctor. No malaria. Grr. I was almost disappointed. I'd had a bad fever for the whole day, a debilitating illness, and it's just an infection? Not even one worthy of cipro? I went home with my amoxicillin and tylenol, happy to have found the simple solution and wondering if it was mostly in my head.
When I was a child, I had a fever. When it was pretty springtime (or occasionally in the fall) and the flowers of Minnesota or Michigan woke to greet the world, I would be ill. Sinusitis would take over my breathing for a couple days, but invariably I would miss a week or two of school. Every morning I would feel terrible and not able to go to school. Then, a couple hours later, I'd wish I weren't "sick" so I could go ride bike or play. In the evening, I'd be almost well, eating and joking, but then after dinner I would begin to deteriorate, sniffly and pitiful as I went to bed, not expecting to go to school in the morning. I often wonder how much of that was my own expectation interfering with my body's healing. Did I expect to be sick in the morning? Did I want to just skip school for a week?
Back at school today, I feel and act fully recovered, but I wonder out of habit, is it real? Did I really just get better immediately from my terrible sickness? I know that's what antibiotics do, but was I really needing to be that sick? I probably exagerrated a bit. But then I devalue my own experience, my own feelings about it at the time. I cannot function without trust in my senses, but I know they're broken, too. I don't perfectly see the world. I've got all these bits of me between me and das Ding an sich, that I'm just used to looking through. My eyes cover themselves. But experience is real, perception is real. "Is there anybody in there?" I have to assume you are real, too. For sanity's sake. But I must question my self-deceit, as I seek to live and experience and perceive truly and fully. I must tell myself truth if I am to tell others anything like it. Devaluing experience in general leads to escapism or Buddhism. If the world was good, if very God calls it so, I wish not to escape this world but to purge my illusions about what is truly good. To shine light. But I can't even tell which parts are false, whether I'm doubting unnecessarily or convalescing overmuch. I want to make sure I am not avoiding the world for the sake of escapism or timidity, but I need fresh eyes to see which parts are worth surgery.
Just a little flavor of the philosophical stuff I like to play with. I trust in the light, which will bring all things into itself, into knowledge of self, other, and God. God's good world is all around us, but it is broken. The world is beautiful, good, enjoyable, but we must not affix ourselves to the brokenness but to God's repair. He's still working on me--I'm not done dying--kids under construction--this is not how I am--Christian soldiers...with the cross going on before. "Behold, I am making all things new."
I saw a bright kid the other day who had just been given enough money to attend secondary school. I saw a poor mother who had just come to the hospital with no money for pills, but she was grateful for her son's diagnosis. I saw a bullying episode defused by a few quick words. I read a packet on proposed changes to Kenya's Constitution. I am glad to not be sick anymore, because I miss things when I'm distracted by myself.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Memory
The children were tested this week. From Wednesday to Friday, we "invigilated" our own exams and other teachers' as the students spent an hour or two forging 20% of their term grade. Another 20% comes in the next set of exams and then the final 60% for the final exam. High pressure and heated competition forge students whose choice between welding apprenticeship or medical school might be shaped by a single day's work in a classroom. These students know they compete for few national university spots, so any time they spend doing anything but study they feel they have wasted. Or so a recent University graduate said to me yesterday. There is certainly little opportunity for the boarders to do anything else. After supper, they go back to class to study on their own until bed. Saturday, we have elitist class--extra fees, extra attention. It's not all bad. This most recent Saturday we measured the height of the flag pole with clinometers we had fashioned from our protractors.
As I try to get an angle on the extremely hard-working students, I continue to have English barriers. Besides obvious things like speaking loudly and slowly in front of a group, individual communication is not usually smooth. Forget puns, especially if they're thrown in haphazardly, and move more toward big gestures with silly voices or innuendo. A pun takes too much explanation, and only interesting double meanings justify explanation. A student the other day, a couple hours after I took a picture of her at her request, said to me, "You will remove those for us later?" She gave me no preface but a glance at the camera--"picha" or "snap" in the sentence would have clued me in. Ms. Wacera was nearby, and I was grateful she knew what the student meant. I couldn't even tease afterward with the difference between delete and develop, because the student had only just learned the word "develop." But I tried [to lose the game].
Here I am, taking pictures in a new place far from home--far enough to actually learn something from the Christmas letter I received for the first time--and things pass on. There is a melancholy guilt, a wistful Sehnsucht, attached with leaving. Even if you only leave your own culture because you don't fit and want to blame not fitting on culture shock, you miss things. I love my home, my people, our ways (well, mostly). And glimpses of "how we do things back home" tend to float unbidden through my mind when emptied.
The year is half over--half full, I guess, of opportunity for growth. The relationship building now has a possibility, a responsibility to grow deeper than simply exchanging cultural notes, but I am not yet Kenyan. It is still comfortable and easy to get stuck on talk of home. I have to remember how to move past this--when in a new place, the things and people that mattered before just do not compute here. But some things always matter. The language describing these things changes, as do the customary smokescreens, but everyone loves talking about things they love with people they love. I think it is better to want to know what someone thinks because of their personhood, not their nationality.
Josh put a sad CD on before he left. These ramblings are totally his fault. The Fray. Blame them, too. And probably Canada, but I don't remember why.
I remember you, people back home. And I miss talking to you, and being a part of your lives. But not enough to leave now. Jesus makes life here, too--abundandantly as he tends to, and I am a part of other lives I am not yet ready to leave behind.
As I try to get an angle on the extremely hard-working students, I continue to have English barriers. Besides obvious things like speaking loudly and slowly in front of a group, individual communication is not usually smooth. Forget puns, especially if they're thrown in haphazardly, and move more toward big gestures with silly voices or innuendo. A pun takes too much explanation, and only interesting double meanings justify explanation. A student the other day, a couple hours after I took a picture of her at her request, said to me, "You will remove those for us later?" She gave me no preface but a glance at the camera--"picha" or "snap" in the sentence would have clued me in. Ms. Wacera was nearby, and I was grateful she knew what the student meant. I couldn't even tease afterward with the difference between delete and develop, because the student had only just learned the word "develop." But I tried [to lose the game].
Here I am, taking pictures in a new place far from home--far enough to actually learn something from the Christmas letter I received for the first time--and things pass on. There is a melancholy guilt, a wistful Sehnsucht, attached with leaving. Even if you only leave your own culture because you don't fit and want to blame not fitting on culture shock, you miss things. I love my home, my people, our ways (well, mostly). And glimpses of "how we do things back home" tend to float unbidden through my mind when emptied.
The year is half over--half full, I guess, of opportunity for growth. The relationship building now has a possibility, a responsibility to grow deeper than simply exchanging cultural notes, but I am not yet Kenyan. It is still comfortable and easy to get stuck on talk of home. I have to remember how to move past this--when in a new place, the things and people that mattered before just do not compute here. But some things always matter. The language describing these things changes, as do the customary smokescreens, but everyone loves talking about things they love with people they love. I think it is better to want to know what someone thinks because of their personhood, not their nationality.
Josh put a sad CD on before he left. These ramblings are totally his fault. The Fray. Blame them, too. And probably Canada, but I don't remember why.
I remember you, people back home. And I miss talking to you, and being a part of your lives. But not enough to leave now. Jesus makes life here, too--abundandantly as he tends to, and I am a part of other lives I am not yet ready to leave behind.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Zanzibar
So, we had a weeklong retreat on the beautiful island of Zanzibar. Coming from an East African country where people will happily show you around town, but become very angry if you don't pay them afterward, we were welcomed to the island and shown to our hotel by a few guys who were just walking the same way. We stayed in lovely St. Monica's hostel, atop old slave chambers, two below-ground stone rooms where up to one hundred fifty slaves were housed before being sold in the adjacent market. The market, closed in 1863 at the urgings of Livingstone, is now a church of coral and lime. Made over a period of many years, the unskilled workers who began by installing some columns upside down, finished the cathedral with a clever, complex, arched roof. This was visible from our window and our balcony. Arab features accent many of the buildings there, swoops at the top of walls and keyhole-framed doors.
We had various activities--a spice tour, a round table discussion about Christian/Muslim relations on the island, a tour of the cathedral, and swimming with dolphins. They were all valuable experiences. The ITC group did prove to be good resources as we went. Having done some research, their special interest in HIV/AIDS was a keen aid to our discussions. They were all intelligent. We went our separate ways for most of the trip, but it was good to have some new people around to bounce ideas off of. We got to see and taste many spices at a spice farm. Cinnamon bark, cloves, jackfruit, peppercorns, and many more fruits and spices overwhelmed our tongues for an hour and a half as we walked around in the humidity. We then saw the sultan's baths, created for the sultan of Omar, who moved the capital to Zanzibar because he liked it so much. I probably would do that too. It was just a relaxing, welcoming place. Every beach we saw was picturesque, and most people we met were personable and easygoing.
More peaceful still were the dolphins. There is a place on the coast where dolphins are rather common early in the morning. So at 6:30, we left Stone Town, drove for an hour (on the way seeing some red colobus monkeys, the island's only "African wildlife" of note) to a beach on the southeast side of the island, grabbed some snorkel gear and two people to man the boat, and motored out into the blue Indian Ocean. Josh, with a year on the swim team, was in our boat as was Whitney, who doesn't usually like to touch water with anything higher than her calf, and Nicole, the one who had been pushing to "swim with dolphins" all week. We drove for a long time before seeing one fin peeking out of the water. The guides told us not to jump in yet. It was just one. Soon, we found a few. We saw them coming up for air together. Two or three fins broke the surface and dove again just below the surface. The guides said "This side!" and we jumped. Except Whitney. She watched. But she entered the water later. It was magical to swim ferociously, assisted by flippers, behind a dolphin lazily scooting through the water. A few times, I followed them as long as I had breath. I was not a huge fan of the snorkel tube. I just used the goggles. We came back tired and exhilarated by a powerful experience.
The islanders have not had power since December. All the businesses which need it use generators or have closed for the time until the mainland repairs the line. There were cheap places and touristy places side by side, and the touristy ones had lights on.
The lights stayed on all night the second night we stayed in Dar es Salaam. Having just returned from Zanzibar, we were tired, and we were grateful they left the generator on at the Kurasini Catholic Retreat Center--the heat was oppressive. The fan was only a minor consolation, but it was a help. We packed and prepared for return bus ride on Sunday Jan 17, which turned out to be not quite as long as the 16 hour trip we had endured on Monday. The next morning I left early for Gatundu to teach again. It is good to be back with our friends.
We had various activities--a spice tour, a round table discussion about Christian/Muslim relations on the island, a tour of the cathedral, and swimming with dolphins. They were all valuable experiences. The ITC group did prove to be good resources as we went. Having done some research, their special interest in HIV/AIDS was a keen aid to our discussions. They were all intelligent. We went our separate ways for most of the trip, but it was good to have some new people around to bounce ideas off of. We got to see and taste many spices at a spice farm. Cinnamon bark, cloves, jackfruit, peppercorns, and many more fruits and spices overwhelmed our tongues for an hour and a half as we walked around in the humidity. We then saw the sultan's baths, created for the sultan of Omar, who moved the capital to Zanzibar because he liked it so much. I probably would do that too. It was just a relaxing, welcoming place. Every beach we saw was picturesque, and most people we met were personable and easygoing.
More peaceful still were the dolphins. There is a place on the coast where dolphins are rather common early in the morning. So at 6:30, we left Stone Town, drove for an hour (on the way seeing some red colobus monkeys, the island's only "African wildlife" of note) to a beach on the southeast side of the island, grabbed some snorkel gear and two people to man the boat, and motored out into the blue Indian Ocean. Josh, with a year on the swim team, was in our boat as was Whitney, who doesn't usually like to touch water with anything higher than her calf, and Nicole, the one who had been pushing to "swim with dolphins" all week. We drove for a long time before seeing one fin peeking out of the water. The guides told us not to jump in yet. It was just one. Soon, we found a few. We saw them coming up for air together. Two or three fins broke the surface and dove again just below the surface. The guides said "This side!" and we jumped. Except Whitney. She watched. But she entered the water later. It was magical to swim ferociously, assisted by flippers, behind a dolphin lazily scooting through the water. A few times, I followed them as long as I had breath. I was not a huge fan of the snorkel tube. I just used the goggles. We came back tired and exhilarated by a powerful experience.
The islanders have not had power since December. All the businesses which need it use generators or have closed for the time until the mainland repairs the line. There were cheap places and touristy places side by side, and the touristy ones had lights on.
The lights stayed on all night the second night we stayed in Dar es Salaam. Having just returned from Zanzibar, we were tired, and we were grateful they left the generator on at the Kurasini Catholic Retreat Center--the heat was oppressive. The fan was only a minor consolation, but it was a help. We packed and prepared for return bus ride on Sunday Jan 17, which turned out to be not quite as long as the 16 hour trip we had endured on Monday. The next morning I left early for Gatundu to teach again. It is good to be back with our friends.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Zanzibar was great!
I have posted some pictures on my flickr, but don't have enough internet time to tell you how wonderful and restorative Zanzibar was.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Time to eat
Happy New Year from Kenya! School has begun--we went back Wednesday for three days of remembering students' names, rejoining the company of our fellow teachers, sharing stories about holidays, and even a little teaching. But now we are back in Nairobi, preparing to leave in the morning for Zanzibar! Tomorrow is our first retreat as a YAV group. We go to Zanzibar in conjunction with ITC, the Interdenominational Theological Center in Atlanta, GA. They seem like a cool bunch so far--we worshiped with them this morning and had dinner with them Friday. They will be good resources on this retreat as we discuss how God is working and study the structures that we have seen. I heard two of them preach this morning, and wish to commend to you some of the things I heard (but I cannot reproduce all the magnificent alliteration of both speakers. props to them).
Today we remember Jesus' baptism, and ours too, hopefully. Baptism is an inauguration into a new way of being. We are anointed into the presence, the purpose, and the power of God--the indwelling of the Holy Spirit through a path Christ walked, with the approval of God the Father. Not merely to heavenly peace, but to power through the indwelling of the divine. As in, the God of the universe, holy and mighty, who has come to us as a person, comes in us wandering people to make us new and air out our dank spaces. The purpose of baptism is not merely to enrich a single person, but the whole body of Christ. Growth is no isolated incident. It must be systemic.
The second message encouraged us, like Naaman, to humble ourselves to God's transformative power. It comes to us through simple means of grace that can seem simultaneously too easy and too mystical, and obedience is the way to healing. Pride will keep us unclean, as we refuse the gracious gift of God for our well-being.
Both sermons pointed me to a Gospel that was vital and relevant. Encouraged by Pastor Edward Furi of PCEA St. Andrews (among others), the Gospel's immediate importance has been on my mind recently. Obviously, the promise of God is not merely for the life to come. It is life here, too, but in FULL. It is prosperous by God's sanctified definition--not necessarily by your own or your boss's or professor's incomplete longings. It is for peace and joy and justice in God's good world, not just in heaven or in the new earth. The Gospel is now. God gives peace today. And all we have to do is jump in.
Take the plunge. Seek the light. Be anointed again in Spirit and Truth this New Year. Take up wholeheartedly the means God gives you to know and to love God and neighbor. May the one by whose help we have come empower you for his life-giving mission. Today.
Today we remember Jesus' baptism, and ours too, hopefully. Baptism is an inauguration into a new way of being. We are anointed into the presence, the purpose, and the power of God--the indwelling of the Holy Spirit through a path Christ walked, with the approval of God the Father. Not merely to heavenly peace, but to power through the indwelling of the divine. As in, the God of the universe, holy and mighty, who has come to us as a person, comes in us wandering people to make us new and air out our dank spaces. The purpose of baptism is not merely to enrich a single person, but the whole body of Christ. Growth is no isolated incident. It must be systemic.
The second message encouraged us, like Naaman, to humble ourselves to God's transformative power. It comes to us through simple means of grace that can seem simultaneously too easy and too mystical, and obedience is the way to healing. Pride will keep us unclean, as we refuse the gracious gift of God for our well-being.
Both sermons pointed me to a Gospel that was vital and relevant. Encouraged by Pastor Edward Furi of PCEA St. Andrews (among others), the Gospel's immediate importance has been on my mind recently. Obviously, the promise of God is not merely for the life to come. It is life here, too, but in FULL. It is prosperous by God's sanctified definition--not necessarily by your own or your boss's or professor's incomplete longings. It is for peace and joy and justice in God's good world, not just in heaven or in the new earth. The Gospel is now. God gives peace today. And all we have to do is jump in.
Take the plunge. Seek the light. Be anointed again in Spirit and Truth this New Year. Take up wholeheartedly the means God gives you to know and to love God and neighbor. May the one by whose help we have come empower you for his life-giving mission. Today.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
A whole new world
Having seen Avatar for the second time today, I have perhaps a responsibility to share some thoughts on it to validate my experience. Not that it's infinitely awesome and I couldn't wait to see it the second day in a row—yesterday's was a gift and today's was just 200 shillings ($1 = Ksh 75). But you should watch it. Don't necessarily pay 8 bucks if that's not in your budget, but see it sometime. It is a tale of corporation and nature interacting. It is the story of Dune, the story of resource grabbing, and the story of wealth. The main character laments, "I was a warrior who thought he could bring peace, but sooner or later we all have to wake up."
Click here to show/hide spoilersDune, the unique features of the planet are all part of a complex process. Avatar's Pandora had resources not connected at all to the way of life (as far as we know). I felt like this led itself better to imperialist allegory—undiscovered oil underground is typically entirely incidental (as far as I know) to the life of people above.
Avatar was more moving than I thought, especially living in a place where people fought in 2007 because they felt like land had been taken away from them for political reasons. And political reasons are never far removed from wealth, here as anywhere. The best roads in the country connect the commercial centers pretty well and the presidents' hometowns very well. We walked through a library yesterday downtown erected by "His Excellency, the Governor of Kenya..." in 1929 or something.
So, besides being mildly depressing, the movie pointed me to the press, to look out for such blatant resource-grabbing that has simply lost our interest in today's entertainment climate. I've been pointed recently to Southern Sudan and its border-drawing, coming referendum, and continuing conflict. I also add material to my story, my glasses. These processes are the backdrop for our world—corporations or governments reaching ends by uncreative means. So, this movie, in its cliche way, made me think that it would be a good idea to punch somebody sometimes. Cuz the bad guy just really made me angry. And his nose would be a small price to pay for the lives of people he would be unable to shoot down covering his face. I've been pretty idealist about this in the past—violence begets more violence is surely true. But I guess there are probably things worth fighting for. Not sure about killing for yet, but definitely fighting for. Fight the good fight, people. And don't kill the earth. She might kill you right back.
Click here to show/hide spoilersDune, the unique features of the planet are all part of a complex process. Avatar's Pandora had resources not connected at all to the way of life (as far as we know). I felt like this led itself better to imperialist allegory—undiscovered oil underground is typically entirely incidental (as far as I know) to the life of people above.
Avatar was more moving than I thought, especially living in a place where people fought in 2007 because they felt like land had been taken away from them for political reasons. And political reasons are never far removed from wealth, here as anywhere. The best roads in the country connect the commercial centers pretty well and the presidents' hometowns very well. We walked through a library yesterday downtown erected by "His Excellency, the Governor of Kenya..." in 1929 or something.
So, besides being mildly depressing, the movie pointed me to the press, to look out for such blatant resource-grabbing that has simply lost our interest in today's entertainment climate. I've been pointed recently to Southern Sudan and its border-drawing, coming referendum, and continuing conflict. I also add material to my story, my glasses. These processes are the backdrop for our world—corporations or governments reaching ends by uncreative means. So, this movie, in its cliche way, made me think that it would be a good idea to punch somebody sometimes. Cuz the bad guy just really made me angry. And his nose would be a small price to pay for the lives of people he would be unable to shoot down covering his face. I've been pretty idealist about this in the past—violence begets more violence is surely true. But I guess there are probably things worth fighting for. Not sure about killing for yet, but definitely fighting for. Fight the good fight, people. And don't kill the earth. She might kill you right back.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Merry Christmas!
It's Christmastime in the city. Nairobi does Christmas with Santas, break, and food. The santas range from the fat white Coke billboard to the African man dressed in a red suit, white beard, and red fuzzy cowboy hat outside Westgate; offices' breaks typically last from a week before Christmas to a few days after New Years'--we had a pretty typical one at the Across office from 18th to 4th. And the food is chapatti. Already before school closed the games teacher was worried about the soccer team's likely weight gain over break.
I've had most of December off from teaching, and I came to Nairobi to work with Across, an organization that works as a church and community resource in Southern Sudan, seeking Christ-centered transformation. I helped somewhat setting up a website. It is strange to work on a website, the face of an organization, with an organization whose face you've not seen for more than 3 weeks. But there was a surprising face--my boss was from Hollandale, MN, where we lived for four years ('96-'00). I mostly was just a reminder that the website was a priority. And I got to nag our web design company that we hired. I'll link to the website once it's live early January. Across was a very cool community to be a part of, seeing some people working hard on the theology and reason for Across' existence, seeing others giving this theology hands and feet as they worked with communities.
For we are the body of Christ. One body spread over many lands, many people, sometimes tripping over its size, sometimes timid in its rarity. And we remember this Christmas a body born to us, the Christ our betrothed whose body we now are. God-with-us makes us with God. May we be represent that remaker of the world in the peace that passes understanding, the joy that is complete, the hope of a way through the desert, and the love that will not let us go.
I've had most of December off from teaching, and I came to Nairobi to work with Across, an organization that works as a church and community resource in Southern Sudan, seeking Christ-centered transformation. I helped somewhat setting up a website. It is strange to work on a website, the face of an organization, with an organization whose face you've not seen for more than 3 weeks. But there was a surprising face--my boss was from Hollandale, MN, where we lived for four years ('96-'00). I mostly was just a reminder that the website was a priority. And I got to nag our web design company that we hired. I'll link to the website once it's live early January. Across was a very cool community to be a part of, seeing some people working hard on the theology and reason for Across' existence, seeing others giving this theology hands and feet as they worked with communities.
For we are the body of Christ. One body spread over many lands, many people, sometimes tripping over its size, sometimes timid in its rarity. And we remember this Christmas a body born to us, the Christ our betrothed whose body we now are. God-with-us makes us with God. May we be represent that remaker of the world in the peace that passes understanding, the joy that is complete, the hope of a way through the desert, and the love that will not let us go.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Finances
Everything is in order—I have raised my money. If you wish to donate more, I'm sure that's fine with the YAV program—I think I have had to raise less money than YAVs last year because they raised more than they needed to. But the best way you can be supporting me now is with prayers. For I continue to need wisdom and understanding after my funds are complete. And stay interested! It is very encouraging to get comments on my blog or emails from people, reminding me of people I wish I could talk to more, sharing their lives with me when I cannot share in them as I am used to. And if you disagree with what I say, all the more reason to tell me about it. Thank you so much for your support so far. God is good. God has sustained me so far, and I trust the Lord to be in this place even when I don't know it, carrying me through and using me knowingly and blindly for the glory of the one already exalted.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Newsletter 1
The sun set yesterday a little before 7. Just like the night before. Everyone knew it would be completely dark very shortly. No extended twilight here—the sun's angle gets pretty low a bit before 5, but it stays light until, sneakily, the sun leaves and all is dark. Someday I would like to see a good sunrise here, the sun of this world burning bright mere minutes after its heralds invade a dark world.
The past three months have seen orientation to Kenya and then orientation to our placements. One day we were living in a roomy but windy wing of a house in upscale Lavington, the next we moved out and moved in to our respective situations. As the sun rose on our real lives for this year, we began to feed ourselves, to have neighbors, and to begin our work with the students. Josh Orem and I are set up in an apartment that has two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a large living room, neighbors to other teachers and staff who live right on the school compound. Thrown into classes after observing one Kenyan math class (Josh doesn't even teach math), we have found the students at Icaciri Secondary respectful, hard-working, and fun.
The area is very rural, but much more thickly settled than American farm country. Agriculture here begins at the home, not at the industrial farm machine. So the Deputy Principal has 200 chicks in a little canvas lean-to behind her house. Our neighbor to the north sells us milk—every day since the rains started we get a half liter in our entryway. One of the men who works in the kitchen grows sugar cane for sale, and we buy our eggs from someone about 20 minutes’ walk away. In that 20 minutes of walking, we do not see just one crop growing for miles, waiting for a cultivator. Rather, many crops greet us, maize mixed in with the beans, bananas everywhere in little pits, nduma-arrow root-down between the ridges near water, all growing in what I would call people's yards. Grass is an exception to this rule—many people have begun growing swaths of grass to feed the growing number of cows, which are quickly becoming the most profitable use of land.
In Nairobi, the cows of the Maasai (to whom, if you did not realize, belong all the world's cows) roamed the street with us, sometimes causing traffic jams (Why did the cow cross the road?). When we did some gardening, even in our fancy neighborhood, we walked for two minutes to a place where the cows often slept to buy boleo ya ng'ombe (cow manure) from the man who lived there in the manure pit with the cows and his son.
The poor are separate here, but not too separate. Areas that began as British homes or Indian businesses are still rich, but no longer ethnically uniform. The poor are always with us. Every rich area of Nairobi has a poor area right next door. Kangemi is right down the road from where I am now, and Kibera is right by where we did some big shopping during orientation. The change is sudden. When we were on the border of Kibera, a primary school at the end of a market marked the beginning of the slum. And everybody knows it's there (except for the foreigners, of course). It's black and white, day and night—obviously, a white person is out of place in the slum but not in Village Market, an imperialist palace with mini golf, electronics, high hawker prices, and fancy landscaping. There is no twilit transition from rich to poor neighborhoods, just someone’s fence or a building on the border.
The ethnic diversity here is amazing. Most Kenyans seem to be very steeped in the traditions of their ethnic group, and I've heard from two different tribes that their tribe is the "backbone of Kenya." Big cities are mixed, but most rural areas are very uniform in ethnic composition. At our school the first day, a Form 2 (sophomore) told me with very serious eyes that he wished to be called by his Christian name; this after being introduced to me as "Maasai." There was something suddenly different about him in my mind—I had categorized him, accepting his classmates' view, which, with all my American history of racial tension, made me a bit ashamed. He's not actually Maasai, I discovered months later, but he is tall and runs fast. Obviously Maasai.
Most of the ethnic trouble comes when politics happens and a President does good for his people and no one else's. But this is changing, too, on the ground level. The tremendous loyalty I saw last month as the Harambee Stars lost to the Nigerian footballers, three goals to two, I had assumed carried over to political loyalty. But then a Kikuyu a few weeks ago, whose Member of Parliament is Uhuru Kenyatta (son of Mzee Jomo Kenyatta, first President of Kenya), from Kenyatta's hometown even, listed the son as a primary suspect in the 2007 post-election violence. I cannot speak to the allegations, but it was a surprise to hear his countryman calling him out. The winner-takes-all style of elections may be losing favor as Kenyans, seeking a new constitution, are sick of corruption. One evening, long after the sunset (at a little before 7), and then the next morning in worship, the boarders at Icaciri had changed the words of the Michael Jackson song in Free Willy.
"Father, your people are dying,
They're dying of corruption,
And they need your help...mmm."
Josh and I went to Gatundu Presbyterian one Sunday, to a sparsely attended English service. We then visited a friend in the hospital, returning some time later to bring greetings also to the worshippers at the next service. We could not have pushed into the back of the church for the press of people, all praying and singing in their mother tongue. But we went around to a side entrance and were ushered to the front. The matron of our school, who had invited us, encouraged us to present a song when we introduced ourselves. We went up, following a skilled choir, silently coming to the center and introducing ourselves. Our English was likely understood by all but the oldest and youngest among them, for we were brief. And we sang the same song we had sung with the full complement of YAVs at Meru town, "They will know we are Christians by our love." Two foreigners up front, singing in a language whose service draws no one, choosing a pitch too low for both our ranges, enunciating like Americans, difficult to understand, gave what they knew to a church they did not know. And God gave something, too. For the rest of the service, Mercy, the matron, kept telling us how they were repeating to each other "We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord," the opening lines of the song. There we stood, visitors unable to even participate intellectually in the goings on, singing about being one. And somehow we were. We knew with the churchgoers that even if there is a sharp, sudden distinction between our skins, between our country's GDPs, between our descent, or between our language, the day is ours together. The same Spirit draws us to our mutual redemption, into one body for the glory of God.
The past three months have seen orientation to Kenya and then orientation to our placements. One day we were living in a roomy but windy wing of a house in upscale Lavington, the next we moved out and moved in to our respective situations. As the sun rose on our real lives for this year, we began to feed ourselves, to have neighbors, and to begin our work with the students. Josh Orem and I are set up in an apartment that has two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a large living room, neighbors to other teachers and staff who live right on the school compound. Thrown into classes after observing one Kenyan math class (Josh doesn't even teach math), we have found the students at Icaciri Secondary respectful, hard-working, and fun.
The area is very rural, but much more thickly settled than American farm country. Agriculture here begins at the home, not at the industrial farm machine. So the Deputy Principal has 200 chicks in a little canvas lean-to behind her house. Our neighbor to the north sells us milk—every day since the rains started we get a half liter in our entryway. One of the men who works in the kitchen grows sugar cane for sale, and we buy our eggs from someone about 20 minutes’ walk away. In that 20 minutes of walking, we do not see just one crop growing for miles, waiting for a cultivator. Rather, many crops greet us, maize mixed in with the beans, bananas everywhere in little pits, nduma-arrow root-down between the ridges near water, all growing in what I would call people's yards. Grass is an exception to this rule—many people have begun growing swaths of grass to feed the growing number of cows, which are quickly becoming the most profitable use of land.
In Nairobi, the cows of the Maasai (to whom, if you did not realize, belong all the world's cows) roamed the street with us, sometimes causing traffic jams (Why did the cow cross the road?). When we did some gardening, even in our fancy neighborhood, we walked for two minutes to a place where the cows often slept to buy boleo ya ng'ombe (cow manure) from the man who lived there in the manure pit with the cows and his son.
The poor are separate here, but not too separate. Areas that began as British homes or Indian businesses are still rich, but no longer ethnically uniform. The poor are always with us. Every rich area of Nairobi has a poor area right next door. Kangemi is right down the road from where I am now, and Kibera is right by where we did some big shopping during orientation. The change is sudden. When we were on the border of Kibera, a primary school at the end of a market marked the beginning of the slum. And everybody knows it's there (except for the foreigners, of course). It's black and white, day and night—obviously, a white person is out of place in the slum but not in Village Market, an imperialist palace with mini golf, electronics, high hawker prices, and fancy landscaping. There is no twilit transition from rich to poor neighborhoods, just someone’s fence or a building on the border.
The ethnic diversity here is amazing. Most Kenyans seem to be very steeped in the traditions of their ethnic group, and I've heard from two different tribes that their tribe is the "backbone of Kenya." Big cities are mixed, but most rural areas are very uniform in ethnic composition. At our school the first day, a Form 2 (sophomore) told me with very serious eyes that he wished to be called by his Christian name; this after being introduced to me as "Maasai." There was something suddenly different about him in my mind—I had categorized him, accepting his classmates' view, which, with all my American history of racial tension, made me a bit ashamed. He's not actually Maasai, I discovered months later, but he is tall and runs fast. Obviously Maasai.
Most of the ethnic trouble comes when politics happens and a President does good for his people and no one else's. But this is changing, too, on the ground level. The tremendous loyalty I saw last month as the Harambee Stars lost to the Nigerian footballers, three goals to two, I had assumed carried over to political loyalty. But then a Kikuyu a few weeks ago, whose Member of Parliament is Uhuru Kenyatta (son of Mzee Jomo Kenyatta, first President of Kenya), from Kenyatta's hometown even, listed the son as a primary suspect in the 2007 post-election violence. I cannot speak to the allegations, but it was a surprise to hear his countryman calling him out. The winner-takes-all style of elections may be losing favor as Kenyans, seeking a new constitution, are sick of corruption. One evening, long after the sunset (at a little before 7), and then the next morning in worship, the boarders at Icaciri had changed the words of the Michael Jackson song in Free Willy.
"Father, your people are dying,
They're dying of corruption,
And they need your help...mmm."
Josh and I went to Gatundu Presbyterian one Sunday, to a sparsely attended English service. We then visited a friend in the hospital, returning some time later to bring greetings also to the worshippers at the next service. We could not have pushed into the back of the church for the press of people, all praying and singing in their mother tongue. But we went around to a side entrance and were ushered to the front. The matron of our school, who had invited us, encouraged us to present a song when we introduced ourselves. We went up, following a skilled choir, silently coming to the center and introducing ourselves. Our English was likely understood by all but the oldest and youngest among them, for we were brief. And we sang the same song we had sung with the full complement of YAVs at Meru town, "They will know we are Christians by our love." Two foreigners up front, singing in a language whose service draws no one, choosing a pitch too low for both our ranges, enunciating like Americans, difficult to understand, gave what they knew to a church they did not know. And God gave something, too. For the rest of the service, Mercy, the matron, kept telling us how they were repeating to each other "We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord," the opening lines of the song. There we stood, visitors unable to even participate intellectually in the goings on, singing about being one. And somehow we were. We knew with the churchgoers that even if there is a sharp, sudden distinction between our skins, between our country's GDPs, between our descent, or between our language, the day is ours together. The same Spirit draws us to our mutual redemption, into one body for the glory of God.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The chiln's
"It takes a village to raise a child," says African culture. Mercy, the matron at Icaciri secondary, whose main jobs are supervision and student relations, had her twin nieces staying with her for a few days this week. Besides being refreshing and energetic, they were effective and amusing language teachers, enjoying our attempts at Kikuyu. They were often seen in the kitchen, over by Mercy's house, entertaining the students during tea, or playing with the daughter of the Deputy Principal. And they had pretty much free reign. There are children who come watch the soccer games and practices, fetching balls or subbing as keepers. I don't ever see their parents--the primary school field where we play doesn't have a fence on all sides of the compound, so they come and go as they please. Students walk back and forth between villages with minimum supervision. Children here are the concern of the entire community, so there is no expected security issue. Primary schoolers just walk home after school--sometimes a mile or two, the last bit of which they do by themselves if they're the only one living out that far.
Yesterday we went to a football game. Nigeria's team came to Nairobi as part of the 2010 World Cup. A child in a dirty shirt asked me with better English than I expected from a 9 year old if I would take him in with him. Curious, I refused, having only one ticket. Next I saw, he was in line with somebody else, who didn't look like him at all or, I suspect, know him. I saw him later inside and waved. I think that soccer games, like matatus (adventurous van transports), may just let kids in free. Children here are special.
Anyway, sorry to not blog in a while. Ish. Haven't thought of much. I still haven't blogged by phone. We'll see if that ever happens. But, I am working on a newsletter. I know I've told some of you this since I've been here, but now I'm putting it on the blog, so it must be true. If you are not one of my sponsors or in my family, send me your email address so I can send you the newsletter. If you don't have email, talk to one of my friends who does. But I don't expect too many blog readers to not have teh e mayls. Peace and turkeys, as Hunter Bailey might say.
Yesterday we went to a football game. Nigeria's team came to Nairobi as part of the 2010 World Cup. A child in a dirty shirt asked me with better English than I expected from a 9 year old if I would take him in with him. Curious, I refused, having only one ticket. Next I saw, he was in line with somebody else, who didn't look like him at all or, I suspect, know him. I saw him later inside and waved. I think that soccer games, like matatus (adventurous van transports), may just let kids in free. Children here are special.
Anyway, sorry to not blog in a while. Ish. Haven't thought of much. I still haven't blogged by phone. We'll see if that ever happens. But, I am working on a newsletter. I know I've told some of you this since I've been here, but now I'm putting it on the blog, so it must be true. If you are not one of my sponsors or in my family, send me your email address so I can send you the newsletter. If you don't have email, talk to one of my friends who does. But I don't expect too many blog readers to not have teh e mayls. Peace and turkeys, as Hunter Bailey might say.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
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The contrasts of the movie were intentionally drastic. In the first five minutes, the shuttle takes people in from orbit, passing over verdant jungle with huge trees on low gravity to a mechanical octagonal fortress of metal, concrete and looming towers. Technology, fueled by resource-seeking industry, meets natural, balanced life. The life on the planet is so advanced that the trees together make a world brain, and touch-sensitive phosphorescent plants light the path of the Na'vi, the people, at night. The Na'vi can even interface with the network of trees to upload memories or with animals to ride. I assume millenia of deliberate selection have caused this outcome in an already condusive biology, compared with the millenia of science and progress that consumed Earth by this time. The fire that Jake lights as soon as it becomes night leads to unneccessary wildlife death, and the first spat with his future lover. Such symbolism of nature and technology swept through the entire film—James Cameron stayed general enough that different people saw different things. There was intentionally no direct connection to specific situations—natives did not dress or speak exactly like Zulu or Cherokee or Maya.What people saw in the movie was not always universal. Yesterday when I saw it someone saw mostly an environmental message—don't mess with the Earth, she'll kick back. But I had been entirely in imperialism mode—people were deliberately pushed aside because they couldn't have understood the "wealth" they were sitting on. A tree thousands of years old was destroyed, the ancestral home of thousands of people, for millions of dollars of ore. But the processes of environmental destruction and of imperialism are the same. Human life and animal life are both consumed in the furnace of technology and resource-grabbing. It makes me wonder if the shareholder model of business is flawed because we don't see what our money does. I wonder, too, at the press that came out of Pandora. I assume that it would be very expensive to get there, so in the absence of professional journalists, the company could filter information however they saw fit. Or, after a flurry of interest initially, future information was not as interesting, not as profitable for the press.