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
E minor
October draws to a close, and the rains have come. We wait to see if the rains will grow into the promised El Nino torrent. Now they just begin to assuage the drought. Every other day or more frequently the clouds break into a refreshing shower for a few hours. The sunsets have been better since the rain started.
I heard about a volunteer years ago in Kenya (I think even through the PCUSA, probably the VIM program) who apparently was sticking it to government corruption and whatnot. I heard recently that the denomination who places us, the PCEA, is the denomination of the President, VP, and many lawyers. The ministry here has not so far looked like protests and rallies, only presence. I am a missionary to a country with more Christians per capita than the U.S. I am a presbyterian missionary with a PCEA church some of whose members think "P" is for "Protestant." The language here tends away from denominationalism, and the divide is often between "born-again" and not. I haven't heard a layperson talk about Reformed theology to explain their presbyterianism. The leaders of the churches have studied, but the average churchgoer won't talk of total depravity or perseverance of the saints. They'll know the teachings of Osteen better than those of Luther, Calvin, Schaeffer, and Buechner combined (but that's a weird list). The separation in the situation stems from European and American missionaries arriving from different denominations in different parts of Kenya. Many ethnic groups are mostly of one denomination, as the early missionaries of different denominations went to different areas. Stir that up in a pot with 42 language groups in an area the size of Texas, and the current language trend for interdenominational unity (use of "born-again") becomes more than an authenticity test (which is part of it)--it is a survival strategy. The church must look like a church, and people must be able to communicate about spiritual matters in a unified way in order for those who lead their cows through the streets of Nairobi to tell their neighbors who run the country, brothers and sisters in Christ, of their spirituality.
For church this Sunday, Josh and I went to Gatundu PCEA with the Mercy, the matron of our boarding school. After a short English service with no pew full, we left. Returning for the Kikuyu service a bit later, we found standing room only. We didn't stay long, but we greeted them with a song. "They will know we are Christians by our love," we sang in a key about a third too low. "We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord," says the first verse. Mercy said they spoke of it throughout the service as a message from God. The Kenyan people, who worship divided by ethnicity and historical circumstance, gobbled up the message of unity from two wazungu (foreigners). Maybe that's what our ministry here will look like. If we can practice unity here among our Presbyterian brothers and sisters, maybe that's also the best thing we can take back with us to our United States, and work and pray that all unity may one day be restored.
I heard about a volunteer years ago in Kenya (I think even through the PCUSA, probably the VIM program) who apparently was sticking it to government corruption and whatnot. I heard recently that the denomination who places us, the PCEA, is the denomination of the President, VP, and many lawyers. The ministry here has not so far looked like protests and rallies, only presence. I am a missionary to a country with more Christians per capita than the U.S. I am a presbyterian missionary with a PCEA church some of whose members think "P" is for "Protestant." The language here tends away from denominationalism, and the divide is often between "born-again" and not. I haven't heard a layperson talk about Reformed theology to explain their presbyterianism. The leaders of the churches have studied, but the average churchgoer won't talk of total depravity or perseverance of the saints. They'll know the teachings of Osteen better than those of Luther, Calvin, Schaeffer, and Buechner combined (but that's a weird list). The separation in the situation stems from European and American missionaries arriving from different denominations in different parts of Kenya. Many ethnic groups are mostly of one denomination, as the early missionaries of different denominations went to different areas. Stir that up in a pot with 42 language groups in an area the size of Texas, and the current language trend for interdenominational unity (use of "born-again") becomes more than an authenticity test (which is part of it)--it is a survival strategy. The church must look like a church, and people must be able to communicate about spiritual matters in a unified way in order for those who lead their cows through the streets of Nairobi to tell their neighbors who run the country, brothers and sisters in Christ, of their spirituality.
For church this Sunday, Josh and I went to Gatundu PCEA with the Mercy, the matron of our boarding school. After a short English service with no pew full, we left. Returning for the Kikuyu service a bit later, we found standing room only. We didn't stay long, but we greeted them with a song. "They will know we are Christians by our love," we sang in a key about a third too low. "We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord," says the first verse. Mercy said they spoke of it throughout the service as a message from God. The Kenyan people, who worship divided by ethnicity and historical circumstance, gobbled up the message of unity from two wazungu (foreigners). Maybe that's what our ministry here will look like. If we can practice unity here among our Presbyterian brothers and sisters, maybe that's also the best thing we can take back with us to our United States, and work and pray that all unity may one day be restored.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Dusty Gatundu no longer
I do my own laundry here. This does not mean I go to the first floor and throw my clothes in the washer or even take public transit to the laundromat. It means I put soap in a bucket, fill it with water, then fill another with just water. Then, washing, agitating (with some friction), and rinsing complete, the clothesline becomes home to jeans, shirts, trousers, and socks. Our cautious site coordinator told us to be more discreet with other items, so they go to the line in my room. The efficacy of this washing style depends on the skill of the operator, but as much as I worked really hard to get the soil (Africans respect it too much to call it “dirt”) out of my cuffs and trouser hems. There are pieces of Africa stuck so firmly in my wardrobe that I cannot but take them with me.
I was counting on that. A year in a place will leave its mark, and this place has things to teach me from language and geography to how to respect people in a different way. I have yet to see what dirt I'd like to leave with the people here to remember and respect my culture. It's easy to be a friend, and sharing the love of Christ is why I'm here. So that's part of it.
There was a wedding yesterday! One of our fellow teachers took us to his family's home, where we learned some Kikuyu, had some delicious food, and learned to slaughter a chicken. We got to the wedding late (I don't think we knew when it started), so we caught people as they were going to the reception from the service. It was remarkably similar in what happened (waiting, food, announcements on a low quality speaker, cake). It was pretty tame--there was no loudness and little dancing, just smiles, family, and friends. The tradition here is to have a married couple for Best Man and Best Woman. Or whatever it's called. They not only help plan the wedding, they advise the couple--early troubles in marriage are not taken to parents or counselors, but to the best couple.
Finished Sir Gibbie--we’ll see what I read next. Last one was Confessions of an Economic Hitman. I recommend either and especially both. I read an edited version of Sir Gibbie which was terribly easy to read for all the ramblings filtered out. Theres a Wilde Picture that I think will be next, but it is on my computer--will need something else for the staff room.
The rain is here almost every day, and my time is up.
I was counting on that. A year in a place will leave its mark, and this place has things to teach me from language and geography to how to respect people in a different way. I have yet to see what dirt I'd like to leave with the people here to remember and respect my culture. It's easy to be a friend, and sharing the love of Christ is why I'm here. So that's part of it.
There was a wedding yesterday! One of our fellow teachers took us to his family's home, where we learned some Kikuyu, had some delicious food, and learned to slaughter a chicken. We got to the wedding late (I don't think we knew when it started), so we caught people as they were going to the reception from the service. It was remarkably similar in what happened (waiting, food, announcements on a low quality speaker, cake). It was pretty tame--there was no loudness and little dancing, just smiles, family, and friends. The tradition here is to have a married couple for Best Man and Best Woman. Or whatever it's called. They not only help plan the wedding, they advise the couple--early troubles in marriage are not taken to parents or counselors, but to the best couple.
Finished Sir Gibbie--we’ll see what I read next. Last one was Confessions of an Economic Hitman. I recommend either and especially both. I read an edited version of Sir Gibbie which was terribly easy to read for all the ramblings filtered out. Theres a Wilde Picture that I think will be next, but it is on my computer--will need something else for the staff room.
The rain is here almost every day, and my time is up.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Update!
It's been a long time. I may have just set up posting by email, which means I don't have to blog from Gatundu (when they have power) or Nairobi (where I've been for the past two weekends, but not again soon). Last time we tried to blog in Gatundu, there was electricity rationing because it was Wednesday. Anyway, we are spending a weekend in Nairobi. Josh and I, seeing an opportunity to travel with the prefects, rode in a packed bus of high schoolers to the giraffe sanctuary and Mamba village Friday (see pics). The giraffes ate pellets from our hands and, if coaxed, from our lips. I need to get the pictures of that online-my previous picture uploading was interrupted and I don't have them today. Mamba village had crocodiles! Their toothy grins and surprisingly squishy flesh
So, we have seen many beautiful things this weekend on our midterm break. The Min. of Ed. actually recommended (mandated? I wasn't sure of the wording) that boarding schools (most of them) not take midterm recess to stem the spread of H1N1. However, students still needed to go home to collect school fees (that would've been today--they would've just stayed at school for the weekend and gone home today anyway), so we let out as soon as we knew that schools nearby also had. I wonder if some politician just wanted to cover his bases with that mandate.
There have been some interesting discussions about polygamy that we have heard. Because of a proposed change in legislation, it has come up a few times. As far as I can tell now, the church does not support second marriages (polygyny, of course), but tradition and government will as long as the man can support a second wife and has the first wife's permission. Josh and I have both been surprised to hear women championing the cause more rationally than men. For obvious reasons a man's argument for a second wife is accompanied with chuckles and grins, but a woman's argument can be based on bitterness. One intelligent unmarried woman lamented that all the good men would not take second wives, proposing (is twice too much?) a situation where good husbands have multiple wives and bad guys have none. I was not converted, but it was the most effective argument for something that until recently was just part of the culture, or as one person told us, part of being "a gentleman."
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