Day 86 - The Happiest Grief

October 5, 2012 (Sam)

      Rachel lost her child on September 26th, the same day that she had him. They had only a few precious hours together before he died. Today, October 5th, all the Beacon of Hope staff went to her house to see her. When we arrived, the mood was uncomfortably festive. Rachel was nowhere to be seen. All the neighbors had brought over their couches and they were lined up in the alley leading up to Rachel’s front door. Everyone sat outside drinking chai and eating mandazi. People were laughing and telling jokes. I sat awkwardly in my seat, fidgeting. I looked up at the clouds; they looked like a herd of fluffy sheep standing in a big group.

      Rachel suddenly appeared, and nothing changed. No one stopped talking or laughing. I was shocked. She walked down the line of couches shaking everyone’s hands. Shaking their hands. I may be the culturally insensitive American in this situation, but I stood up and gave her a hug. I looked into her dark puffy eyes. Sadness suddenly hit me and I almost choked on my mandazi. After downing two cups of chai, everyone abruptly stood up and started to sing. The song was in Swahili, but from my limited vocab, I could tell we were singing a song about being thankful. That seemed strange. Then another coworker stood up and said a few words about being thankful. He quoted a few Bible verses, “Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances.” And “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” This seemed mildly inappropriate to me. You’re talking to a grieving family and you won’t let the word “thanksgiving” stop coming out of your mouth. From where I’m sitting I can’t see Rachel’s face but I can’t imagine that it’s radiating “thankfulness.” Then he got to the point. He looked at Rachel and her husband and said, “Your child isn’t dead. He’s alive. He may not be here, but that doesn’t mean he’s not alive.”

      I no longer have mandazi in my mouth, but I’m choking again, wiping my eyes. Looking around I can’t help asking myself, “Am I the only one crying?” After someone closed in prayer, everyone just stood up and left. And that was it. We walked out into the street, and people are laughing and joking with each other again, like someone didn’t just lose a child. So I started thinking: Maybe people don’t seem overly mournful because losing family members is just a way of life here. Maybe it’s so much the norm that it doesn’t really faze people. But then I realized this was stupid thinking. How can I possibly think that just because death is more common in this country than in ours that it makes losing someone somehow “easier” here? That’s ludicrous. And then a verse popped into my head. Romans 12:12, “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.” People here aren’t “unfazed” when they lose a family member because death is common in Africa. People here experience the same feelings that we do when we lose loved ones. We all experience the same emotions; we all grieve. But I think that a part of death being such a prevalent part of every day life here is that people have realized, perhaps more clearly than we have, that joy can still be found inside of their sorrow. Because the fact is, life here sucks sometimes, but we have hope. We have a great hope of an eternal glory that far outweighs the light and momentary troubles that we are now experiencing. “So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (2 Cor 4:18). Rachel is looking forward to an eternal hope. Her baby might be gone now, but she is going to see him again.

      This isn’t in any way meant to minimize the suffering that her and her family are going through. The fact is, Rachel lost a child and she is in pain, and this loss will never cease to be a reality for her family. She got to hold her newborn boy for a few hours before hospital staff had to take him away and bury his body. But there is a happy ending that she is looking forward to one day. Life is fragile and full of suffering, but she is not focused on this temporary reality. Rachel, her family, and everyone else who sat around us in that alley tonight, have their eyes fixed on what is unseen, what is eternal. And that is cause for great joy.

Day 83 - It Was Good... It Is Good

The foothills around Mount Longonot

October 1, 2012 (Sam)

      I enjoy watching BBC’s Planet Earth, learning about Ethiopia’s gelada monkeys and the rare environments of the Andes Mountains. I like flipping though National Geographic Magazine, studying stunning photos of Mt. Zion’s slot canyons and the elusive snow leopards in China.

      But nothing compares to feeling the wind whipping through your hair, to caressing the volcanic rock, rough and sharp beneath your fingertips. You can’t experience that inside a TV screen. Hearing an eagle scream in Dolby 5.1 does not compare with the notes that reverberate through your ear canals when one is soaring on plane with where you’re walking. Sitting on the side of a mountain watching a herd of zebra graze, while it may not be in 1080p, is a holy experience.

      For whenever I may question the Creator, I need only to “ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.” 

      Thanks for the reminder Job. I will try to spend more time outside.

Mount Longonot (2776m / 9108 ft)

Day 77 - Video #5

September 26, 2012 (Sam)

      After 14 days without water, our pump was replaced, and we are no longer living out of a bucket. We have come away from the last few weeks with a much greater appreciation for this precious resource. Thanks for the subtle lessons God.

 

On an unrelated note:

      Many African safari companies brag about being able to show tourists the “Big Five”: the lion, elephant, buffalo, leopard, and rhinoceros. Here in Ongata Rongai we boast a different Big Five: the cart-pulling-donkey, the rib-protruding-cow, the skittish-warthog, the street-savvy-chicken and the goat (of which there are also five types: the common street goat, the goat with the distended stomach (or maybe she’s pregnant), the goat that eats campaign signs and advertisement flyers off the telephone poles, the especially rare “goat eating flaming trash,” and the more heart-breaking “goat hanging in the butcher shop window”). Christina and I have already been lucky enough to see all of these impressive beasts in their natural environs! Watch the video below for rare glimpses of Africa’s finest game:

*click on photos to enlarge

Day 75 - The Most Awesome Woman I Know

September 24, 2012 (Sam)

      I know that this is supposed to be a joint blog, “Sam and Christina,” but I’ve kind of hijacked it. So with this liberty, I want to just tell you about my wife for a little bit. She’s lying on the couch fast asleep right now, under the influence of some heavy medication thanks to an excruciating toothache that, for the last month, has caused her to wince when she eats and wake every morning with a sore face. So I want to take this opportunity to brag about her for a minute. And please, don’t ask how our trip to visit the local Kenyan dentist went.

      Let me cut to the chase: Christina has the most compassionate heart of anyone I’ve ever met. Her mission in life is to change the world for the better. Her desire is to pour out onto other people the love that she has so richly experienced inside of her relationship with Jesus. And she is accomplishing that mission as we speak. Forget the part about her being asleep on the couch. I mean, being here, being back in the US, being anywhere where we are around people, her obvious love becomes so evident when I watch her interact with others. Christina finds a way to climb inside other people’s experiences with them. Like two people squeezing inside the same t-shirt, Christina gets as close to other people’s pains and struggles as she can manage.

      Through our involvement with the youth programs at Beacon of Hope, Christina has developed relationships with a few of the girls connected here. Many of these young girls were born HIV positive, live in the local slum, and seem to have no positive or mentoring influences in their lives. Christina immediately recognized this void, was convicted of their need, and stepped up to fill it. Over the last month, toothache and all, she has been pouring her energy into these girls. Investing in them personally. Having them over to show her how to cook Kenyan food. Spending extensive time researching and sharing opportunities with them for continued education options. Encouraging their positive hobbies and talking to them about their personal struggles.

      Evalyne is 17 years old and was born HIV positive. Both of her parents are dead: casualties of the same virus that they passed on to their daughter. Evalyne is almost out of high school and wants to go to college, but because of her lack of access to resources, she has no way of gathering information on application processes, scholarships, academic requirements, etc. Last week Christina had Evalyne into our house and sat with her for four hours talking to her about scholastic opportunities and researching options for her future.

      Naomi is 15 and loves to draw. As soon as Christina found this out, she literally dragged me behind her to the store, where she stocked up on art supplies to give her. Now, Naomi comes by every few days to show off her latest dress designs that she’s been sketching to Christina. Christina patiently, delightedly thumbs through each page, pointing out her favorite swoops and falls (I don’t know what these things are called) of each dress, and always encourages Naomi to come back with more.

      Sometimes, overwhelmed by the suffering and injustice she sees prevailing in these young girls lives, Christina just cries. But after her tears dry, she sits and thinks of ways she can help them. Not how she can uproot them from their lives and replant them in a more auspicious environment, but rather, how, through intimate investment, personal example, and focused guidance she can help these girls where they’re at.

      What Christina’s heart throbs for is helping others. She is an inspiration to me and, when she gets some crazy idea in her head, she is a force to be reckoned with. I am proud to call her my wife.

Day 71 - My Week vs. Your Week

September 20, 2012 (Sam)

      We haven’t had running water in our house in eight days now. The pump that used to push water through our pipes into the sink and toilet tank has been on it’s last leg for some time, and last week it sputtered one last time before giving up the ghost. This fact has changed how several things happen in our house. First, showers now consist of holding a 10 liter bucket of water with knife holes punched in the bottom of it over our heads while frantically trying to scrub down before all the water trickles out. Second, doing the dishes means plates and cups moving consecutively through three tubs of water that progress in color from brown to grey to clear. But lastly, there remains a problem I’ve not yet found a solution to: I can’t get the toilet to flush properly anymore. I’ve tried filling up the tank from the back; I’ve tried pouring water into the bowl, but nothing quite does the trick. I’m able to get some of the matter down, but never all of it. Must be something about these Brittish-made toilets. Thanks Armitage Shanks. This situation has left our house smelling like a pungent mixture of stale urine and used toilet paper. Makes me thankful for the many windows and the ceaseless breeze here in Rongai.

      Yesterday, during the course of conversation with a co-worker and good friend, we learned that in the post-election violence of 1992 (if you haven’t realized it yet, this country doesn’t do well with elections), his family’s neighborhood had been attacked by rioters. His home, where he lived with his family in the Rift Valley, was burned to the ground. He was only in eighth grade when this happened. Before his family was discovered, he and his brothers went and hid in the only place they knew they wouldn’t be found: the bottom of a earthen pit latrine. For six days they huddled together surrounded by piles of human waste, their misery only exacerbated by the December heat (this is 100°+ summertime in Kenya) that accelerated the decomposition of the human excrement. Disease-ridden flies swarmed around their faces, the smell of rotting feces permeating their skin and burning their nostrils. Wave after wave of nausea washed over them. For six days they waited.

      And I’m ignorant if I think that this was an isolated incident. There were probably dozens of children crouching at the bottom of public excrement pits all over the Rift Valley in 1992. And again in 1997. And again in 2007. And there’s a good possibility that there will be dozens of more children lowering themselves into the bottom of dirt holes filled with raw sewage this coming spring, during the 2013 elections. This is reality.

      I’ll take having to smell poop for a week any day over having to live in it for a week.

Day 68 - Cracking Pablo's Knuckles & Video #4

 September 15, 2012 (Sam)

      “No Bribes, Report Corruption” read the sign at Kenya Wildlife Service’s main building in Ngong Town. This was a relief. With the number of times that Christina and I have been warned about the very real potential of “officials” trying to extort bribes from foreigners, we were relieved to read that this was an issue that KWS took seriously.

      We were in the town of Ngong to hike the Ngong Hills, a ridge that rises up from the Nairobi plain to separate the capital city from the Great Rift Valley. “Ngong” is the Maasai word for “knuckles,” which is appropriate because the form of the four main hills along the ridge resemble, from a distance, a giant fist laid flat across the horizon. The lush green landscape made for a nice break from the congested, smoggy city of Ongata Rongai. This was our first time since being here that we'd had the chance to get out into nature; we were ready for some fresh air and vigorous exercise.

      We had done quite a bit of research before coming, and as it goes with doing internet research, we (or should I say, Christina) worked ourselves into a frenzy about the possibility of getting robbed or mugged in the hills. For this reason, we read that we could hire a KWS guide for a very reasonable rate (approx. $18 for the day). Sounded like the wise thing to do anyway.

      Upon arriving, we were informed that KWS does not offer armed escorts; rather it was the Kenyan military who would be providing us with peace of mind today. Alright with us! Assign us our chaperone and let’s go! We met with the local military commander and he said that he would arrange our escort. Then he dropped the first bombshell on us: we would be required to take two escorts with us, boosting the price up to $36. This information made me rather unhappy, as it directly contradicted everything that I had read online and in our guidebook. After arguing with him for several minutes, we relented. Whatever. Give us two guards; we’re already here.

      A few phone calls and more than a few minutes later, two rather disgruntled looking troops ambled out of the building, one armed with a kalashnikov, the other with something else I couldn’t quite distinguish (I was in the Air Force, not the Army, remember). The shorter, chubbier soldier... for the sake of this post we’ll call him “Pablo”... immediately started complaining about how hot it was out, and how he didn’t want to climb the hill again today. Oh well, we’ve already been shafted once. Let’s get going.

      So we started off. The ascent was gradual, then steep. Pablo immediately started pouring sweat, and layers started to come off. By the time we reached the main gate, he looked like he’d been running through the sprinkler in the backyard all morning. This was where we were to pay our admission fee. And it was also where we acquiesced to KWS’ second bombshell: we’d be charged almost $10 to walk the ridge; a full four times more than what our research had told us that we’d be paying (yes, this was taking into consideration that we’d be paying foreigner rates).

Top of Knuckle #1

      Onward and upward. We crested the first “knuckle” with little difficulty. We’re not exactly in the best shape of our lives, but the climb was very moderate. I speak, of course, only for ourselves. Pablo and his compadre were hundreds of meters behind us, huffing and puffing like they were trying to blow down a brick house. We were catching some majestic views and enjoying the breeze by the time the guards made it up to us. After catching his breath, Pablo informed us that because of urgent duties back at the compound, we would only be climbing two of the four main hills. Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin. We kindly told him that we had paid for an escort to climb all four hills, so that’s what we would be doing. I highly doubt your commander would have sent you had he known that you would have to be back in two hours. Nice try though. The boys didn’t like being denied their demand for an early termination of their day-hike, and they made it very evident.

Ambling up to Knuckle #2

      Twice, Pablo and Escobar took us on what they called “the unbeaten path; sure to be replete with unexplored parts of the hill that most tourists miss out on.” It turns out that these side paths were just short-cuts that circumvented the tops of the hills, allowing the boys to miss out on some of the most arduous sections of the trail. Again, we were not thrilled with their indolent tactics.

      At the top of the third hill, which we ensured that we crested as a team, we ran into a large group of locals, who, like us, had stopped to enjoy the view. Pablo plopped down next to the group and started pointing out landmarks on the valley floor thousands of feet below us. Christina and I ambled around the summit, gaping at the 3700 mile long trench that fell away to the west, aptly named, the Great Rift Valley. It was truly a sight to take away our breath.

The Summit of Knuckle #3 (Rift Valley to the left, Nairobi to the right)

Pablo, obviously twitterpated

   
      After a few minutes rest, we decided that we were ready to roll on. We looked around and realized that Pablo had developed a crush on one of the local girls. They were now sitting inches apart, arms almost interlocked as he swept his arm back and forth, surely reciting the names and preferred habitats of all the local shrubbery to his newfound dendrophile. Staunching the vomit that welled up in my throat, we called to him that we were ready to leave before turning and heading down the far side of the hill, ready to take on the fourth and final beast. We reached the bottom quickly and looked back up, only to realize that both guards were still atop the butte, not appearing as though they were going anywhere anytime soon. We pressed on, assuming that they would catch on and hurry to catch up. No such luck. A good 15 minutes later and neither had made a move from their perch atop the last peak. Wishing that we could press on alone, but knowing from our research that the fourth hill was purported to be the most dangerous in the range, we turned back to retrieve our guardians of peace. By the time we had re-ascended half of the hill that we had just descended, our guards got the point, and started to move. As we met them, Christina started to gently remind the guards of their duties as our protectors and scouts. Halfway through her disquisition, Pablo let her know exactly how he felt by turning his back on her and peeing into a bush mere feet from where we were standing. Okay, point taken. We pressed on in silence.

      As soon as we reached the base of the third hill (again) and looked up at the last conquest for the day, Pablo slumped to the ground and laid back in the sun-scorched grass. He would go no further today. We tried to explain that we had paid for two guides to accompany us to the tops of all four hills, but he would have none of it. He refused to budge. He assured us that we would be just as safe, if not more safe, if he kept his eyes on us from his exquisite vantage point at the col. We tried to reason with him, but it quickly became apparent that he wasn’t going anywhere. So we pressed on, one guard light. After 20 minutes of whacking our way through some dense underbrush, we broke out atop the fourth hill. A sight to behold. The wind whipped our hair around and we dropped our light packs and let the cool breeze dry the sweat on our backs. Just over 8,000 feet above sea level, we were at the highest point for miles around. The Great Rift Valley dropped away to the west, stretching all the way from northern Syria in Southwest Asia to central Mozambique in South East Africa. To the east, the towns of Ngong, Ongata Rongai, Kiserian, and the skyscrapers of Nairobi were visible over one and a half vertical miles below us. It was beautiful. A Tawny Eagle rode the breeze in the sky below us, a testament to just how high up we really were. I actually don’t know what kind of bird it was, but a Tawny Eagle sounds pretty cool.

Point Lamwia (8071ft)

      On the way back we encountered no less than four other groups that were each being escorted by a single guard. This spoke quite to the contrary of what we had been told back at the main compound, that every group was required at least two armed escorts. We’d been taken for a hike alright.

      So in the end, we may have been swindled, lied to, ripped off, and left with only a few spare shillings to make it home with... but at least KWS was true to their word: no one actually tried to bribe us.

Please watch the video we took below for a more accurate portrayal of what the beautiful Ngong Hills looked like in person:

Day 58 - Why I Threw Away My Watch

September 7, 2012 (Sam)

      I used to keep an old Swahili proverb posted over my desk when I worked on Dover Air Force Base. “Haraka Haraka Haina Baraka.” Roughly translated, it means, “Hurry, Hurry has no blessings.” It basically means that if you rush into something, whether it be a business venture, a job, a relationship, or just about any other situation, nothing good will come of it. I thought it was catchy and practical; my often monotonous, but very detail-oriented job required that I take careful time when carrying out assigned tasks. Not that it prevented all mistakes on my part, but it did help me remember that slowing down and paying attention to what I was doing always helped the job get done better.

      It has only been since being here in Kenya that I have come to fully realize what this saying really means. “Haraka Haraka Haina Baraka” defines a way of life in East Africa.

      Let me tell a story that might help explain: Last week, Christina and I invited a counselor from Beacon of Hope’s medical clinic to our home for dinner. We made plans for him to arrive at 6pm. At 5:50, Christina turned the stove burners off to let the elaborate meal she had prepared start to cool. We cleared a few last things from the living/dining room, and sat back to wait for a knock at the door. Two hours and nineteen minutes later, that knock finally sounded. Two hours and nineteen minutes later. The food was cold; the drinks were warm; and we were closer to being ready to go to bed than we were to entertaining guests. Our friend apologized profusely for his tardiness. Mentally, my arms were crossed and I was slowly, disapprovingly, shaking my head. But he went on to explain why he was running so late. One of his former colleagues has just lost her son to a nearby river; she was in intense mourning and he had been at her home comforting her for the last several hours.

      You see, “Hurry, Hurry has no blessings” seems to be more about how Kenyans relate to each other than it does about how they relate to business ventures. It’s not uncommon for Kenyans to miss appointment times, show up late to meetings, or stop work altogether in order to carry on a conversation. Pretty regularly we will be greeted in the street by a friend (or sometimes even a stranger), and have that greeting spiral into a 30 minute conversation about life, relationships, or “how we are finding Kenya.” So we realized that our friend showing up late for dinner, had more to do with his desire to be there for a friend when she needed him, than it did with an obligation to “respond to a tragedy.”

      Permit me a sweeping generalization: we are so caught up in efficiency and productiveness in America that we miss out on a lot of relationships that we could be forming. We set meeting alarms on our watches, program calendar reminders into our phones, and dash off from one errand or appointment to the next, hardly taking enough time to stop and have a real, meaningful conversation with anyone. Our own spouses included. We stress productivity; I think Kenyans just stress personal connections.

      When Mary chose to sit at the feet of Jesus and conversate with him instead of worrying about the “to-do list” that her sister was busy checking off, Jesus remarked, “Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” I guess if Jesus was speaking Swahili he would have said, “Haraka Haraka Haina Baraka.”

      The stock market might crash. You might get fired from your job. You might lose all your possessions in a fire. You might get old and realize that your well-stocked bank account isn’t going to sit next to your bed and hold your hand. But you will never, ever regret investing in other people, listening to them, getting to know them deeper, forming life-long bonds with them, or being there for them when they needed a friend.

      Dinner might have been cold that night, but it was one of the warmest evenings Christina and I have spent in Kenya yet.

      Now if you’ll excuse me, I just got a calendar event reminder on my phone. I have to go.