An average Kenyan day...

I lay in bed last night, guessing it was about 11pm, telling my body to wake myself up at 7:00 in the morning. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t late, as Mum Jane wanted to leave at 8 o’clock, but my iPod was dead and it was my alarm clock. My body listened, and I awoke with a youthful excitement at 6:45 (one of the few times in my life I’ve been early for something) to prepare for a day visiting Mum Jane’s home.

The crisp, “wintry” morning air tempted me to try my cornflakes with warm milk poured over them, rather than my usual chilled milk. It was warm, but got a little too soggy too quickly. I downed a cup of coffee, which I find has an odd, almost chemical-like aftertaste—surprising for a country that I would have considered to roast rather good coffee. But maybe Kenyans, themselves, don’t tend to drink that kind—I’m not sure. Either way, it did the trick and I grabbed my jacket, slung the tripod over my shoulder as Lindsey settled herself with the video camera and off we went with Mum Jane at our side.

At the corner of Ngong Road and Kerrarapon Road—the street that leads back to where Hekima Place is situated, we caught a matatu to Ngong market, which is the end of the line going either way for most of the matatus in the area. We stopped here so that Mum Jane could by some fresh vegetables for our visit and for the rest of her days off. We walked past vendors eager to make an early sale, through the rows and rows of women set up with their menagerie laid out on sacks on the dirt ground and through even more rows of displays sheltered by tarp or hay-thatched roofs. We weaved in and out of the stands, brightly decorated with the ripening avocadoes, bananas, tomatoes, skumaweki, spinach, onions, mangoes, carrots, and pea pods. A vendor looked up from sifting through her industrial sacks of beans and lentils and maize kernels freshly plucked off of the cobs to offer us a good price. We politely declined and kept walking to a stand with a young man, probably in his twenties, sitting at a stand not unlike the others we had passed along the way.

Other men and women sat nearby at their respective stands, waiting for customers as they sipped their morning chai. Mum Jane began talking to the young man—in Kikuyu or Swahili, I’m not sure—and spoke to someone on her cell phone, whom I later learned was the young man’s mother and owner of the stand, in the same language. As she explained for us later, Mum Jane always buys from the same stand because by being a regular customer she not only gets a better deal but she can also buy on monthly credit. At the end of every month, she pays for all of the produce she has purchased from that stand. She had to call the young man’s mother because she, and not the son, is the one who knows her as a regular, reliable customer. Mum Jane bought a bag each of potatoes, carrots, and pea pods, as well as some tomatoes and onions. Then we headed on our way again.

As we walked to the market area where all the buses and matatus stop, Mum Jane explained to us that it would be 30ksh (equivalent to about 35 US cents) each to Kiserian, where she lives, as it is a fixed price. On the other hand, our ride from Karen to Ngong Market can vary quite a bit—anywhere from 10ksh to 30ksh (although sometimes they’ll even try to charge 40ksh). I tried to find out if there was some sort of organization that fixed the price, but my impression was that the drivers on that route just don’t ever change the price for different people or different times, and it’s just that simple. Matatu services are privately provided and I doubt there is any organizing body among them.

We rode the matatu into Kiserian and got off on a fairly busy dirt-covered street lined with shops. We walked over a footbridge, about five or six 4-inch planks wide, to cross the two-foot wide open sewer that ran up and down the length of the road, dividing the shops from the travel-way. Mum Jane purchased two bags of chicken feed and placed them in a “paper bag”—which was actually a plastic grocery bag—that she had brought with her and we continued on. Occasionally people rode by on bikes and more rarely in cars, but most made their journeys this morning, as usual, by foot. As we walked down one particular street, we passed donkeys pulling carts of goods up the hill. At the bottom of the hill, where the road elbowed, there was a giant heap of garbage with six or seven donkeys grazing on top and several more scattered at the circumference.

We walked through a government-owned quarry where women and men sat on plots that they rented, chiseling at huge blocks of stone, which others hand-mined from the ground, to make gravel or building bricks. In the distance a woman bent over as she tended to many rows of maize and other crops. Just beyond her were white metal stakes and wire fencing that marked off the government-owned land that in years to come will be covered in water from a dam that has slowly begun to be built. The dam will stop up the water supply from one of the seasonal rivers in the area. Once it is built, though, all of the people who rent quarry or farm land will have to find another means of earning their livelihoods. And goodness knows what the environmental affects will be. I remember learning in Ghana about all of the controversies still surrounding the construction of the Volta Dam in the sixties. Fortunately here, it sounds like all of the land has already been fairly purchased from the people who lived there. But the environmental consequences are yet to be seen. But hopefully the benefits—particularly in the long rum—will outweigh any negative effects.

As we trekked the winding path up the gentle slope, I looked out over the lush, green, rolling hills. Kiserian is truly a beautiful region. This is the Rift Valley. This is, quite literally, where civilization and mankind had its roots. This is where it all began. This is where we all began. Mankind must truly be blessed with a vivid imagination to have imagined a place more beautiful than here, to want to leave this Eden. It’s difficult to imagine how much we, as a species and as a world conscience, have grown since life began in this area. But also, we must remember how much we have not changed, how much we are all still the same people, the same lineages, the same blood, the same beings. We are brothers and sisters—determined not by the color of our skin but by the ancient parents who bore us way back when. This is where we come from. This is who we were. This is who we are. And this who we will forever be. Let us not forget that we are bound to one another in the best possible way, that we are all pieces that make up one being; one entity; one past, present, and future. We began our existence together, and we must continue to walk together as brothers and sisters, as mothers and fathers. Hand in hand.

This scene of Eden quickly vanished as the path narrowed and became lined with cacti. When we emerged we found ourselves walking along a wider path with small houses and plenty of bushes lining the way. Suddenly everywhere we walked we heard whispers and shouts of “Mazungu! MAZUNGU!”—White person! WHITE PERSON! And then little faces appearing, repeating over and over “How are you? How are you?” “How are you?” clearly being the only English phrase these kids had learned yet, our responses of “Fine, thanks, how are you?” were typically met with another high-pitched and outrageously adorable “HOW ARE YOU?!”

We reached Mum Jane’s cottage. Hers was one in a line of about 6 or 7 end-to-end residences. We entered a gate in her fence that protected her dwelling and kitchen garden from intruders. On the right when we entered was the latrine—smaller than a port-a-potty with no toilet furnishings, just a hole in the middle and room for your feet on either side. Toilet paper—optional in many homes—hung on the door.

We entered a single room furnished with a couch, a chair, and a coffee table, all covered in pink fabric, on which she had stitched a small green design. A small charcoal cooker, the same width as the pot that sat upon it, was on the floor, but she took it outside near her garden to continue cooking. The pot of water on top of the beans and corn that were already cooking was steaming—her twenty year old son who recently came from their hometown (near the border of Tanzania) to attend a vocational tech school and find a job as an electrician had started the food for us that morning. There were 5-gallon buckets that had previously held Toss laundry detergent but now held water stacked all along one wall. She had a few sets of dishes that I could see, some pots and pans, her sewing machine (as she is a tailor both at Hekima Place and sometimes for her neighbors), and a black-and-white analog television that receives one channel. Her electricity was working, but it doesn’t always. She explained that the electricity is about to be rationed, so she’ll either have it during the day or during the night, but she doesn’t know which—the electricity companies will decide and it will be different for every village.

Off of this room there was a door, which led to her sleeping room, though we did not see it. On the other side, though with no door access from the living room, was her son’s living room. The living room was about 10feet by 12 feet, and their sleeping rooms were no bigger and probably even a little smaller. The three rooms together were in an L-shape. Outside the rooms just past the latrine was her kitchen garden—about 6’x6’. Here she grew maize and pumpkin—and some mchicha grows wildly. She also had a small chicken coop with a rooster, 2 adult hens, and 4 little chicks. She gathers the eggs they produce and when they mature she either eats them herself or sells them—sometimes to Hekima Place and sometimes to others.

Her home was very modest but very quaint. We didn’t drink the water because we weren’t sure how clean it was. She told us she has to store it in the buckets because she has a tap right outside (right behind the latrine, actually), but it doesn’t always spout water so she has to store up.

For lunch we ate 1-2-3 githeri, which is githeri that is boiled and not “fried” (basically cooked with oil instead of water). The “Kenyan” way to eat—as the girls in Maisha will explain when telling you why it’s better to be a Kenyan than a mazungu at their dinner debate—is with your hands, and that’s exactly how 1-2-3 githeri is eaten. It’s called 1-2-3 for the way you mix the salt in with it before you eat it. After putting the githeri—usually beans, maize, and potatoes, though this time just beans and maize—in a bowl and adding salt, you hold the bowl and gently shake it 1, 2, 3 times and then turn it half-way around in your hands and shake it again 1, 2, 3 times to get the salt mixed in. After she mixed our githeri and served our bowls, we walked outside and she poured water over our hands over top of a plant outside her door so that we could wash up. Then we dug into our lunch with our fingers leading the way. It was very good—and very fun to eat with our hands!

After lunch we walked a little way to see if we could buy some milk for tea. The first place—just a kiosk next to someone’s home—didn’t have any milk. These vendors typically buy their milk from wholesale and then resell it at their respective shops. We weren’t sure if we’d be able to find any, but Mum Jane asked some ladies standing nearby and they told her another place where we could get some. So we went there—another little kiosk—and purchased about a pint and a half of milk, which comes in a clear, thin plastic bag. This milk, like the milk the girls drink at Hekima Place, is neither pasteurized or homogenized, which is fine because it’s just used for tea so it gets boiled before we drink it.

We went back, again amidst bursts of “How are you?!” and the accompanying laughter, and Mum Jane boiled the milk outside on her cooker and added the tea leaves and sugar. We drank our tea in the living room, chatted, and watched a little bit of TV. I noticed that while we sat there the same news show repeated three times before switching to a report on healthy habits that included using a mini trampoline for exercising—which didn’t really seem to be geared at the average Kenyan. But then again, the average Kenyan wouldn’t be sitting at home at this time of day watching TV. Mum Jane explained that it would be rare for her neighbors to be home at this time unless they were out of a job or had an off day like she did. (The resident mums work four days on, two days off.) There was also a show documenting some sort of Maasai celebration--the people on the TV were slaughtering a goat and dancing. The Maasai women are apparently very well known for their jumping abilities--and they did a lot of jumping in their dances.

Around 4:00 we decided we should head back. It’s not safe to ride the matatus afer dark (which happens around 6:45-7) and we had told Gladys we’d be back by 6, which was dinner time. We walked back to town, even though we could have caught a matatu by the road a lot closer to her house. We wanted to walk though and we did some filming of the countryside. When we got back to town, Mum Jane wanted to introduce us to her best friend, Nancy, who was a hairdresser—or, as they say, a saloonist. She was doing someone else’s hair when we came in, so we sat down and talked to her while she finished plaiting (braiding) an older woman’s hair. Then she said she wanted to touch Lindsey’s hair because she’d never touched a mazungu’s hair before. Mum Jane said that Nancy had never even actually talked to a mazungu before. So Lindsey sat in the chair and Nancy brushed her hair and redid her single braid in the back. Then she did the same to my hair and helped me tie my scarf on my head.

Kiserian is a pretty rural area, and now that I think about it I don’t even recall seeing any other wazungu (plural of mazungu) there. At one point, later as we were walking, a car with a couple wazungu in it passed us, and Mum Jane said they looked very surprised to see us. Afterwards Nancy came with us to get some sodas at a little grocery store, and she told me that she grew up and had lived here in this area all her life. She went to school here, though her children go to school a little farther away. But her husband is from this area too. She was very sweet and invited me to come back and visit her and she would make me mokimo, which is mashed potatoes and skuma (or apparently anything green) with corn in it—it’s delicious! : ) She also offered to show me how to make mandazi, which is like a donut only not nearly as sweet and with no icing or fancy toppings. It’s very good, especially at tea time.

It started getting late so Lindsey and I hopped onto a matatu—of course, the same 30ksh rate as what brought us here. Then we grabbed another matatu from Ngong market back to our stop at Shade Hotel, which is right past Kerrarapon road. The sun was starting to go down but it was still light out. We made it back a little after 6, so they’d all started eating, but they had saved us some food. All in all, it was a really great day. I learned so much and got to experience a more average Kenyan day, which was really wonderful.

We are all the same...We love and we laugh, we hurt and we cry, we live and we die...

Today I listened to a "This American Life" episode that featured a friendship of two 12-year-old girls. Andy suggested we listen to it since Lindsey and I are probably going to end up focusing on one or two friendships between the girls here at Hekima Place for our documentary. The episode is about two transgender children who have the chance to meet and become instant BFFs. (It's a really interesting episode...I recommend it if you have a little spare time... http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?sched=1283) Their friendship and their dialogue is simple and jovial, typical of the kind of friendship any of us had when we were that age. But their connection is more unique and in some ways stronger than what they've had with other kids their age because, for each of them, the other is the first other transgender child they've met. There's a commonality there that ties them together, that helps them feel more accepted and less isolated in a world that constantly--sometimes inadvertently and all too often deliberately-- isolates them.

Similarly, we've found that there are friendships here that, while typical of the type of friendship any kid might have, seems to hold a deeper, underlying truth about these girls. There's a sense of belonging that these girls can give to each other. And what makes their friendship unique and their bond strong has several layers. On the one hand, these girls need a best friend and a trusting relationship more than most their age. They've lost the relationships on which they are supposed to most rely—their family—because of untimely deaths, debilitating disease, and crippling poverty. We all need someone to trust, someone to spend one-on-one time with, and someone to love us unconditionally—and these girls find that best in the friendships they build here.

So this is supposed to be a documentary about social justice, right? A documentary about friendship? Where's the issue of justice?

Well maybe the justice of the situation is in the fact that Hekima Place gives them the environment they need to build those relationships. Here is a place filled with trust and stability and people who won't be going anywhere anytime soon.

Or maybe it's in the way the mums and uncles teach them to open up their hearts and to love each other even though they've been so hurt in the past. Here is a place where we preach love and give hugs and accept you just the way you are.
We are all the same.
We are not different from one another.
We all belong to one family.
We love and we laugh, we hurt and we cry, we live and we die.
Care for us and accept us. We are all human beings. We are normal. We have hands. We have feet. We can walk, we can talk—and we have needs just like everyone else. Don't be afraid of us.
We are all the same.
--We Are All the Same: A story of a boy's courage and a mother's love, by Jim Wooten

Maybe it's just in the fact that the best way to cope with such unfathomable losses is just by finding someone who can be there for you and for whom you can be there. All you need is love.

Maybe it's in all of these places and more.

Away in a manger

Today I started reading The Poisonwood Bible. It's pretty good so far. It takes place in the Congo in the early 1960s. It's interesting though because it brings up a lot of issues of colonialism and Western cultural arrogance. There's a lot we (and by "we" I include the whole world) don't understand about the countless cultures that exist in this world...and a lot we don't even try to understand. Yet for hundreds, probably even thousands, of years, we (here I mostly mean Western cultures but goodness knows probably every other culture has done it too—but the victor writes history, right?) have gone barging into various countries and regions to "civilize" the "lesser" cultures.

Just because something is different and just because it seems to me or to you to be less efficient or effective or moral or whatever, doesn't mean it is. Or maybe it is, but I guarantee there's a reason behind the method. Or maybe there isn't. But different does not inherently require us to categorize into "good" and "bad" or "better" and "worse". Not everything is that black and white—in fact, I'd venture to say that nothing is that black and white. Everything has its value. Just like everyone has his or her value. We have to learn to not be so quick to judge—I have to not be so quick to judge (even now)--which is something that I think we're taught to do from a young age—for better and for worse. We're taught that the quicker your wit and the quicker your tongue, the quicker you'll get ahead. But there's a lot to be seen from the back, too. So maybe being in front isn't where we need to be all the time. Or it's not where everyone needs to be. And if you're not "in front" it doesn't mean you have to try to get to the front. My point is that we just need to learn to accept and value people and accept and value the way they live their lives.

Of course, this doesn’t mean that we shouldn't challenge each other or challenge the actions and attitudes of others--or ourselves. But it does mean that we should seek to understand before we do that. It's a much slower process, but if you or I want to do any good—for others or ourselves—we have to take that time. Haraka haraka haina baraka. Hurry hurry brings no blessings. It's a Kenyan proverb we ought to take to heart. A proverb I ought to take to heart.

Oh I went on a tangent and forgot the rest of the day! So anyway, today I made a manger and carried a bail of hay on my back…you know, the regular daily routine ; )

Ok it might have technically been straw… The manger was for Baby Jesus aka Baby Johnny—age 2(ish), with his mother Mary aka MaryAnn—age 9, the Little Drummer Girl aka Florence—age 3, and five angels—ages 5-8—dressed in white First Communion dresses, halos, and hand-crafted wings. The scene was the first Christmas, staged for photos for this year's Christmas cards from Hekima Place. In the first setup, we had a laundry basket with a beautiful Kenyan kanga (cloth you might use as a wrap-around skirt, to cover something, or anything else, really) covering the basket, with straw—freshly dried by one of the uncles this week for this express purpose!—and Baby Jesus laid carefully inside. The Little Drummer Girl kneeled nearby, drumming on a little drum one of the volunteers purchased as a souvenir. In the other scene, we had Baby Jesus held by Mary, sitting on a bed of straw, with one little angel right behind her holding a large gold star and four more angels further back holding the letters N-O-E-L. We took the pictures with the videocamera and we'll get some stills from the video footage so that we can get ones where they're all smiling, which of course was a challenge. : )

We also interviewed Kristie today. Kristie was one of the five volunteers who came as a group at the same time as Lindsey and me and who is leaving on Sunday. Kristie came here last summer, too, so she has had a longer relationship with Hekima Place and the girls here. I filmed; Lindsey interviewed. It was short but sweet and should be perfect for the promo piece we're doing for Hekima. We're going to have a short clip about volunteering at Hekima Place so that when Mum Kate is talking to people she can encourage them to come volunteer here!

A big part of what Mum Kate and Hekima Place want to achieve is a better understanding in the US and other parts of the world of Kenyan culture, of the terrible consequences of AIDS, of women's and girls' issues in this part of the world, and of what we--as Americans or Canadians or people of whatever nationality, and simply as fellow human beings--can and must do for our brothers and sisters around the world. Part of how she does this is by encouraging people--whether you're a student, a lawyer, a soccer coach, or a retired man or woman--to come here and work with these kids and work at the school where they go. It's great for the kids because they get more individualized attention--in school and in play--than the mums and uncles can afford to give them in their busy days.

But also, as I'm learning now, these girls have so much more to give to the volunteers than we could possibly give to them. They are so willing to open their hearts to us, even though they've had countless volunteers here before who've come and gone. They have a strength and a loving trust in them that I strive for and I think a lot of us yearn for. They're truly remarkable young women and I can't wait to see what wonderful and incredible things they do with their lives.
Some people come into our lives and quickly go.
Others stay for awhile and leave footprints on our hearts
And we are never ever the same.

They've also started a program here that connects the girls with a Big Sister who writes letters to them and sends them cards and presents on their birthdays and holidays. This helps create a stronger bond for those individuals who are Big Sisters (and there are a few Big Brothers, too) to the circumstances and the lives of these girls. It also helps create a cultural bridge for the girls, here, as well, who as a result get a glimpse into an outside adult's perspective, culture, and life. So we want to help Mum Kate continue this tradition of cultural and social outreach through the film.

After the interview, we walked to town to get food for dinner (because Saturday nights are chicken and rice) and to get the Christmas pictures put on a CD. It's such a nice walk into town, so we try to do it as often as we can now! It takes about an hour, but it really doesn't seem that long. Lindsey and I usually get into some sort of philosophical or strangely hypothetical (sometimes really goofy) conversation so the time passes quickly. : )

We walk along the side of the road which is a dirt footpath that in some parts seems deliberate but in other parts has clearly just been worn down by frequent pedestrians. Early in the walk, if you look down the hill on either side of the road you can see a stream. Gladys has told us that there are often baptisms in the stream. One Sunday on the way back from church we actually saw a baptismal processional headed towards the stream. Fortunately, even though it's nearly winter here, it was a pretty warm day in the high 70s or low 80s by that time.

Later on the walk we pass the Giant Eagle Church, which looks more like a giant picnic with its huge white tents and black-, red-, and green-colored billboard advertising the times of its services and the full names of its pastors. On Sundays this place is packed with cars, all day long pulling in and out when the back-to-back services begin and end.

Further along the walk there is a bus stop with a little bus stop shelter similar to what you might see in the US but with dirt underfoot instead of a cement sidewalk. Also, while you might be less likely to see a professional businessperson in a suit on a bus in the States, here a suited man--or woman--is a regular on the matatus. This bus stop is a regular stop for the matatus and buses along this route (the 111 route that goes up and down Ngong Road from Karen Town Centre all the way into Nairobi, so I'm told, though I've yet to the end in that direction).

There's a kiosk not too far beyond that whose outside walls are bright green with the logos advertising Safaricom internet and phone services. The woman inside sells Coca-Colas and bananas and meat seasonings and various other supplies you might need to pick up on your way home.

When we got to town we bought fresh broccoli and eggplant and mushrooms because, while I do love the food here and haven't gotten sick of any of it yet, Lindsey and I have both just been craving more vegetables. We eat a lot of greens--skuma--in the meals the mums prepare, and the girls help us prepare mchicha and some other green whose name I can't recall and that I would doubtfully be able to spell--both wild greens from the shamba--when there's meat for dinner, and Lindsey and I eat a lot of tomatoes and avocadoes (fresh guacamole too!) on our own, but it's still not enough! They just eat so many starchy foods here. We have githeri for lunch on the weekends and occasionally for dinner--githeri is basically potatoes and beans (like pinto or red beans) and maize (big and chewy corn that is oh so good) with some onions and fresh cilantro (or maybe some other fresh herb). It's good, but starchy. Other meals include:
- Pasta (which they only call "spaghetti" and won't know what you're talking about if you call it pasta or noodles) and minced meat (which of course I don't eat) and sometimes cabbage (delicious! but oily) too
- Rice and chicken (every Saturday night...so LJM and I either bring some veggies over with me or just eat in Amani separately)
- Rice and lentils or green grams (which are basically just lentils...there may be some difference but I can't tell)
- Rice and a bean/some cabbage mixture
- Spaghetti and bean mixture
- Rice and Skuma (greens)
- Ugali (thick pasty/doughy mixture made from maize (did I mention they call corn maize?)--I think...now I can't remember...I'll double check on that) and skuma
- Chapatti (fried flat bread) with bean mixture and/or skuma
-Rice and boiled fish w/tomatoes (again, of course, I don't eat the fish...oh and P.S. it still has some bones in it a lot of times) and skuma

So the good news is that we get a lot of protein here...they get meat/fish about 4 times a week. That actually, apparently, is upsetting for some of the girls because Mum Kate says a lot of them suffer from a sort of survivor's guilt. Most of these girls have brothers, sisters, cousins, grandparents (some even have parents), and other relatives outside of Hekima Place who not only don't get meat 4x a week but rarely have more than one meal a day. And before they came here, a lot of these girls only had one or two meals a day, which probably had meager nutritional value. So it's understandable that when dinner is being served and there's a big chicken leg in or a big helping of minced meat in front of you, it's not just food--it's a pressing reminder that your family, your loved ones, are probably not as fortunate right now. They might be eating, but it's not too likely that they're getting the meat and protein their bodies need. And plus, they like meat. Meat is tasty. It's a treat, in a lot of ways, in addition to being nutritional. And it's a privilege and a provision they didn't have nearly as much when they were at home. Some girls, when they go home on school breaks, end up losing quite a bit of weight. One girl actually lost 5kg, which is about 11 pounds, in one week at home. I don't even know how that's even possible. Needless to say, when she got back to Hekima Place they looked into her home situation--I'm not sure if she still goes back or not but I know she would only be allowed to go back if the mums here were certain that she would not have anything like that happen again.

Anyway, after dinner, we had quite the celebration for the volunteers who were leaving. This farewell party was a bit different than the previous ones we've had. We were in Maisha this time, and girls in each of the grades got up together and sang a song or two of their choice for the volunteers. Then the mums did one and even us volunteers (including the ones who are leaving) did one—we sang "Lean On Me". It was more like a talent show than anything else! As far as I could tell, all of the songs the girls sang were of some religious context (of course, some were in Swahili, but I think I heard "Bwana", which means "Father", a lot in those songs so it's fair to guess those we're Christian songs as well).

[Sidenote: They're pretty openly religious—mostly Christian—here, similar to the Southeastern US, though I wouldn't say they're quite as openly religious as the people were in Ghana. In Ghana, all of the shops and kiosks had religious names (like "In His Name Fruits & Veges" or "Praise God Electronics"), whereas here, none of them seem to have religious names. We did see one, once, called Mustard Seed Grocery, which only subtly alludes to a story of faith in the Bible.]

After that we had a few speeches from each of the houses, and then one from one of the mums, myself--on behalf of the rest of us volunteers who weren't leaving, and Gladys (who, I may or may not have mentioned, is serving as the executive director while Mum Kate is in the US). Then Gladys gave each of the girls a Kenyan name from a Kenyan tribe. (Lindsey and I will get one, too, when we have our farewell party!) Then each of the five girls leaving made a little speech...I admit, I cried during two of the girls' speeches. It was so sad thinking about the fact that I'm going to have to leave soon and I just got plain emotional from them talking about how remarkable these girls are--because it's so true--and how much the girls here have touched their lives--because they've touched mine so much, too.

After that we went to Baraka to watch a movie. I was allowed to choose the movie since it was my birthday this week, but I decided to let Mum Jane pick the movie since I guessed (correctly) that she probably never gets to choose the movie. She picked Mona Lisa Smile. : ) I think she was really excited, too, to get to pick it. : ) The movie was PG-13, but it strikes me how much more we expose kids that age in America to than they expose kids here to. There were some parts--content and language-wise--that just were not appropriate for these girls, who range in age from 11 or 12 to 14 or 15. This movie would be commonplace for kids in the US--most kids by those ages have seen far worse in movies...but scenes talking about birth control just seemed wildly inappropriate here. Maybe it would be inappropriate in the US too and I just don't spend that much time with young teenagers in the US...but it seems like American teenagers are exposed to a lot more than these teens. (That might be a totally different story, though, if these girls weren't here. And I can't even begin to tell you the horrific things these girls have experienced and seen in person in their few years of life so far...I guess maybe kids are seeing and hearing and doing things they shouldn't at such a young age everywhere...)

Well, that's all for now. That was a pretty long post...

Kwaheri. (Goodbye....Oh yeah, Gladys has been helping Lindsey and I with our Swahili, too!)

A very happy birthday x 2!

Today most of the girls did not have school because they had a midterm break. In fact, all of the girls who were away at boarding school came back for 4-5 days because they were on break, as well! So we got to meet those girls, but unfortunately I didn't really get to see them much today because they were in Tumaini and I was eating in Baraka. I did get to see them a little bit at my joint birthday celebration with Johnny though!

During the day today I played with the girls A LOT. I played hopscotch with the younger girls and sang songs as they jumped rope. I used to know so many jump-rope songs--now I can only remember one or two! :( I don't think I took a single break from the girls from around 11am til I came back to go to bed!

Meanwhile, Lindsey did some interviewing and filming with Beth and Mercy, two of the girls whose friendship we're considering making our documentary about. We decided it would be best to split up when we interview the girls because when both of us are there it draws more attention to the camera and it seems to make them less comfortable. So I'm going to do the same thing with them at a later point.

Birthdays here are usually celebrated on the Saturday after your actual birthday, but since the volunteers from Ohio are having their farewell party on Saturday night (because they're leaving Sunday in the early evening), Johnny and I had our celebration tonight! After I had dinner in Baraka, I went over to Maisha house and we all sang and danced for awhile before bringing out the cake. Johnny and I cut the cake together (which was a bit haphazard on his part!) and served everyone cake and vanilla ice cream. The cake here is not quite as sweet as what you'd get in the US. It's very dense, like a pound cake. It's more like a very sweet bread. I like it better that way, personally! The icing is very sweet though, of course! All the people who live in the house where the person whose birthday it is get to eat cake. There is one cake and we cut it up into pretty small pieces--about 2"x2"x3"...but just enough to make you happy : ) And then everyone gets a good amount of ice cream--sometimes vanilla, sometimes strawberry...I don't think we've ever had chocolate. By the time it all gets served to everyone, though, half or more of it is melted though...but it still tastes great with the cake! : ) Johnny helped himself to about a half cup of pure icing by dragging his fingers in the cake pan throughout the whole party : ) After we welcomed everyone to begin enjoying their cake and ice cream so that it didn't melt anymore, the girls who were left (Maisha girls plus three girls from Baraka) went around and gave Johnny and I birthday wishes.

I was wished many a time to have more birthdays than I currently have candles on my cake, a phrase/wish they tend to give a lot. It seems to be a popular Kenyan phrase. Many of the girls thanked me for choosing to be here in Kenya on my birthday and for celebrating with them. I was wished to be a doctor, a saloonist (hair stylist), a pilot, a nurse (by Kathleen because I'm caring), and a pastor (by Mum Helen because I'm kind).

After the well-wishing, the girls adamantly demanded, "WE WANT TO SEE THE PRESENTS! WE WANT TO SEE THE PRESENTS!" Johnny opened up the jacket, pants, shirt, and car that Lindsey and I had gotten him earlier in the week. He LOVES the car. : ) To my surprise, I had some presents too! I got a Snickers, some strawberry gummies, and tic tacs! : ) Of course, all the girls tried to convince me to give them some afterwards, but I didn't give in...until later...

It was a very sweet celebration and one of the best birthdays I've had. : )

For the Maisha girls' movie night tonight, we watched Catch that Kid…not that great of a movie… But I get to choose the movie tomorrow night for Baraka girls!

Oh, and then Lindsey and I made homemade hot chocolate for the volunteers…we boiled milk, melted milk chocolate bars, added the rest of our cinnamon honey and a sprinkling of cayenne pepper for some added spice! It was tasty : )

A Luhya Death

Today, while I was helping to make chapatti--a fried flour flat bread, similar to Indian naan-- and chatting with the mums in Baraka, we heard loud screaming and wailing from next door. The mums ran out of the house and I followed to see what was the matter. After a brief moment, one of the mums came back and said that the mother of the woman next door had died. Mum Jane explained that the woman was Luhya, and one of the Luhya traditions is that when a family member dies, the family members must scream and yell and wail loudly. Part of the reason is to express the grief inevitably felt, which seems healthy, in my opinion, and would ensure that people do not suppress such heavy emotions. (I made a comment about males in our society often being taught to hide sadness and tears in our society, and Gladys said it was the same way in Kikuyu society but I guess not in Luhyah tradition.) Gladys mentioned later that it was also a traditional means of appealing to and pleasing the gods when someone dies.

Feels like home...

Today after church we interviewed three of the girls here, who are biological sisters, along with their mom and their grandfather who were visiting them for a few hours in the afternoon. The girls are ages 11, 7, and 4 and have been here at Hekima Place for about a year.

When they still lived with their mother, they lived in a slum nearby under the support of their grandfather and mother. However, the grandfather has been out of a job for quite some time and their mother, who has AIDS, had been in and out of the hospital quite a bit for awhile because of illness. As a result, the two oldest girls had been taken to a children’s home. This children’s home, however, was poorly run, was dirty, and did not afford the girls the time they needed to do their homework for school. The woman who was paying to sponsor these two girls, as well as three other girls at this orphanage, came to visit the home and was appalled by the conditions. So, at that point, she found out about Hekima Place and asked for these five girls to be admitted here. So that is how those girls came to be here.

One day, though, the mother came to visit her two oldest daughters and brought her youngest daughter with her. At this time, the mother was suffering from a drug-resistant strand of tuberculosis. Tuberculosis is highly contagious and the drug-resistant strands can be, as you can imagine, very difficult to treat since they are resistant to many of the first-line treatments (www.xdrtb.org). When Kate, the director of Hekima Place, saw the mother with her very young child, she talked to her and explained that she would allow her daughter to live at Hekima Place with her sisters because she did not want this little girl to have to be exposed to this difficult illness. The mother, heroically in my mind, agreed to leave her daughter in Kate’s care. Clearly, this would be the best option for the little girl’s health and opportunities in the future, but the strength the mother had to have to be willing to so selflessly give up her baby girl is admirable. Nobody would ever want to have to make that decision—I can’t imagine how difficult it would be for a mother to let go of watching her daughter growing up every day and of being the main role model in her daughter’s life—but to be able to do so when you have to and to be able to conclude that the best thing for your own child is to, essentially, not be raised by you, is courageous.

Seeing these girls—these three precious girls whose smiles warm your heart—and hearing their story and their mother’s story causes me to wonder how we can allow the world to exist where children are better off not being raised by their own parents, who are otherwise fit to be caregivers other than the fact that they do not have the right financial resources or access to a healthy environment. There’s something wrong with this picture. All over Kenya, loving and gentle parents are having their families torn apart because they’re dying of preventable and/or treatable diseases, because they can’t get a job or can’t afford to live somewhere with clean water or sanitation. It’s just, simply, not fair. Each person’s situation is unique and far more complicated than we often realize. But we just have to take the time to understand.

Understand all and forgive all.

Well, we interviewed the girls with their mom and their grandfather. The mother and grandfather spoke some English, but we decided it might be easier to just let them speak Swahili or their mother tongue, Luhyah, and to have the oldest daughter translate for them. That didn’t seem to help, though.

This was, simply put, the most challenging interview we’ve done so far. The language barrier was just too difficult to overcome. We’d been getting really brief answers before with other guardians because of language difficulties, so we thought having a translator would make it easier. But the oldest daughter is still only 11 and still really learning English and Swahili and doesn’t really seem to remember much of her mother tongue, Luhyah. (The language hurdles these girls and kids all over Kenya and much of the African continent have to overcome is truly unfortunate. But I’ll talk about that some other time. )

Then, on top of the language barriers, it appeared that the mother and grandfather were hesitant to say anything other than that they are “so happy the girls are here at Hekima,” which makes sense because they saw us as two people who work for the place that is taking care of their girls. They would, naturally, be hesitant to say anything that could in any way jeopardize the care of their girls at Hekima Place. Even though it would be natural to be worried about her daughters, to miss them sometimes, to be concerned that they’re growing up without their mother’s constant presence—all of which may or may not be part of this particular mother’s thought process—she might be hesitant to articulate those thoughts for fear that Hekima Place would interpret that in a negative way.

So, all in all, kind of a total disaster as far as getting anything usable for our documentary or the promo piece.

But hey, disaster can make great art, right? Well, maybe. We’ll see. Who knows, what seemed like the most difficult moments during the interview could end up being really telling in themselves. One scene in particular stands out: Lindsey asked the middle daughter if she liked Hekima Place, but she stays silent even as the mother and grandfather constantly plead with her, in both Swahili and English, "say 'yes', say 'yes'." She wouldn't say a word. Silence is golden?

We’ve thought about possibly focusing our documentary on the fact that even though Hekima Place is such a wonderful home and provides so much love and support and opportunity for these girls, the girls would still, in many ways, prefer to be at home. Not because their homes are so much better but just because their homes are, just that, their own homes. Home is the place we all want to be at the end of the day when we lay our heads to rest. How many of us can remember the homesick feeling we got the first time we spent a night away from home or the first time we went to summer camp? You’re there with your best friends having the time of your life, but ultimately, when the lights go out and you’re waiting to drift off to sleep, your thoughts start to wander and suddenly a deep pit builds in your stomach and your whole body feels uneasy and you just want to be in your own bed with your own pillow, cuddled up with your favorite teddy bear from when you were just a little toddler but that has secretly remained your security blanket for those stormy, shadowy nights when you’ve just gotten done watching a scary movie and at every flash of lightning you swear you saw someone outside your window. It’s that feeling that if you could just walk out of your room and see your mom and dad seated at the kitchen table going over some bills or paperwork, they’d be able to make you a cup of Sleepy Time tea with drizzled honey and give you a hug and everything would be all better. But it’s not about your Cinderella sheets or your favorite teddy bear Oatmeal or the Sleepy Time tea. It’s about those people who’ve always been there since you were too young to hold your head up on your own and who rocked you to sleep at night. It's about the people who gave birth to you and the people who raised you and the people who were supposed to be there with you until you were old enough to take care of yourself and have a family of your own. It’s about the sense of home that is deeper than time or place. It’s about the security of unconditional love and of the familial ties that give us a sense of belonging and a glimpse into our past and a confidence in our future.

Yes, we can find that other places and in other people. People do it, I know. We can work to recreate that invaluable connection with other people…but it takes time. And it takes effort. And Hekima Place truly does seem to understand that and truly does work very hard to create the security and unconditional love these girls need. But it takes time. No matter how incredible this place is and how much better these girls’ lives will be if they stay here than if they were to stay at home or with their relatives, there’s still that longing to be home--home with their families, home where the heart is. Even though I’ve heard many of them say how incredibly grateful they are to be here and how Hekima Place has quite literally transformed their lives—and I believe it, too—they’re still kids who just wanted their mommy and daddy to tuck them in at night and tell them that everything will be okay when they're going through rough times. It's nothing against Hekima Place, at all. It’s merely testimony to the strength of family and the desperate need we have to maintain our familial bonds and the urgency of the global village to do something to preserve the lives of the people in these families.Yes, we have to do something about these 12 million orphans in sub-Saharan Africa. We need places like Hekima Place for the 12 million already orphaned. But we also need to do something about the millions more who are going to be orphans if we don't stop the unnecessary spread of HIV.

But Lindsey's not sure if we have the talent at this point to communicate all that in a 15 minute film. And given my complete lack of experience in documentary film up until now, I think it's safe to say that if she can't do it then neither can I. We’re just afraid we might end up portraying Hekima Place in a bad light..which is quite honestly the very last thing we would ever want to do because this place truly is incredible and these girls truly are blessed and they do know that. So if Hekima came off in a bad light it would be dishonest on our part.

But we’ll keep searching. All in all an interesting day, though.

The three girls’ mom invited us to come visit her at her home in Kibera--the largest slum in East Africa, just a short drive away in the capital city-- in a couple weeks so we’ll do that and interview her again, this time with Gladys as the translator. Hopefully that will go better.

Peace.

A true celebration of the day you were born...

The manner of giving is worth more than the gift. -Pierre Cornielle


Today, we celebrated Dorothy's birthday. Dorothy lives in Maisha with the youngest girls and turned 13 yesterday. Birthdays here are always celebrated on Saturday, though. A birthday celebration at Hekima Place is a celebration, indeed.

After dinner, all of the girls from the other houses march/dance into the house singing songs about birthdays and Jesus and hugs and happiness. As the birthday girl sits at the table with her cake and a couple buckets of ice cream, the other girls dance around the room with her at the center. She smiles as 50-some people--her sisters, her mums, and her new volunteer friends--shower her with love and congratulations on completing 13 heart-warming and resilient years of life. After at least 4 or 5 songs led by various girls in the room, the girls from Baraka and Tumaini return to their houses. Meanwhile, the birthday girl proceeds to cut her cake to the sound of the other Maisha girls chanting "Ka-taaa ka-ta ka-ta, ka-taaa ka-ta ka-ta, ..."

After the appointed Master of Ceremony girl requests permission for everyone to begin eating, she calls on various girls, mums, and volunteers to give a short speech for the birthday girl.

Little three-year old Frida stands up on her bench and looks over at Dorothy. "Thank you for your birthday and I wish you to be a doctor."

Short but sweet words from a little girl to her big sister whose goal is to become a doctor when she finishes school. The words that follow from other loved ones, big and small, are filled with love and sincerity for a dear friend and sister, with gratitude for this girl's existence in their life, with hope and encouragement for a bright and joyful future. Words that aren't spoken enough but words that literally inject life and love and meaning and belonging into your days. I've honestly never seen such a genuine celebration of the birth of an individual, a celebration of the person she has become, a glorification of the love and goodness she brings to the world around her. Balloons and streamers, party dresses and games of tag, goody bags and fancy paper...at best, they can imply that we're happy and grateful for someone in our life. But nothing can be sure to let someone know that we love them and know that we can't imagine our lives without them better than explicitly saying the words, "I love you. I'm so grateful to have you in my life."

We all need that. These girls most of all. They've lost the sense of security so many of us take for granted that comes from simply having the people who rocked you on your day of birth still be there to wish you happy birthday when you reach 5, when you reach double-digits, when you reach your teens, when you leave your teens. Many of them have felt the rejection, either by choice or through the forces of poverty and disease, of other family members whose care they came under when the dearest people in that child's life--her parents-- passed on.

I've wondered how a mom, here, can find within herself the ability to love these girls when they have their own biological children waiting at home. But the depth of the human heart continues to amaze me. Mum Helen, with a sincerity and sweetness in her voice, looked Dorothy in the eyes from across the table and told her, "Happy Birthday Dorothy. I want you to know that I love you and I love the way you help out and the way you interact with your sisters. I can see how you've truly made a difference in your sister Virginia's life. I'm so grateful to have you in my life. I know you want to be a doctor when you grow up, and I know that you'll achieve that. And I wish you the very best." I can't forget the tearful joy in Dorothy's eyes as she received these blessings and loving words.

How does she know...MOKIMO!

Today I read an article about ethnography and anthropology until some of the girls came to get me to come pick mchicha (sp?), which grows wildly around the shamba (garden). We cut up tomatoes and onions and sautéed them in Baraka house to have with our dinner. I was eating in Maisha, but they brought it over to me and Lindsey when it was done cooking since we don’t eat the meat that was served for dinner tonight. We had a new dish at dinner, too, though. It was called mokimo. It looks kind of strange but it tasted really good! It’s mashed potatoes and corn with skuma (the skuma must have been really chopped up) blended in. It was tasty. It’s a traditional African/Kenyan dish. We also had chopped cabbage, which we have a lot and that I love!

After dinner, the Maisha girls got to watch a movie, like they do every Friday night. Since one of the girls’ birthday is today, she will celebrate her birthday tomorrow night but she gets to pick the movie they watch tonight. She chose Enchanted--so we all cuddled up in the living room of Baraka house and watched Enchanted, which they call “How does she know” because they all LOVE to sing the song “How does she know you love her, how does she know you care…”… even the littlest ones know the song by heart! It’s adorable! <3 It's surprising how well the little ones know the songs they all sing. Even little Frida and Flo, who are only about 3 and a half years old, know most of the words to the songs. Sometimes on special occasions--like birthdays or farewell parties--they'll have the little ones sing a song by themselves and they can do it! They'll sing a whole song--granted it's usually just a few lines repeated over and over again with a couple other changing lines thrown in, but it's still very impressive!

Chapatti!

Today I helped make chapatti (sp?) with the moms! Chapatti is a flour dough that you roll out in circles like a pie crust then you fry it on the stovetop. Then you re-fry them, but this time putting oil on both sides. It is delicious! It’s a lot of work for the moms, but they say it’s their favorite and it’s all of the girls’ favorite too! I guess it’s worth it, even though it takes half the day to prepare! Next week I’ll learn more about how to make the dough so that I can make it at home!

All but one of the other volunteers (besides me and Lindsey of course) left today for a safari. They’ll be back tomorrow night. It’s very quiet without them here…

Gladys (the exec director while Kate is gone) left today too, but she’ll be back on Saturday. She’s just taking a mini-break. She asked me and Lindsey and Sarah (the other volunteer who stayed behind from the safari) to eat with the Tumaini girls because since she’ll be gone they won’t have a mum in the house. At dinner they talked a lot about Chris Brown and Rihanna…they’ve been talking about them since we got here…

Hmm…today wasn’t really very eventful…I’ll have more to say this weekend.

Flying solo...

Today I filmed all by myself! I went to school and filmed an English class with Teacher Charity. I had a tough time because of the lighting (all natural), so everything was either too bright (and got all washed out) or the kids’ faces were too dark. It was a challenge but I think I got some footage that may actually be usable…regardless of whether we use anything I film, I just hope that by the end of this I am getting some footage that is at least usable quality.

I walked back and Lindsey and I made some homemade pasta with cheese, garlic, egg, and milk. Tasty!

I read, played jump-rope with the girls, and read to the girls in Maisha (the youngest ones) after dinner. Just a typical day.

Who will save your soul...or your life? Not this hospital's nuns...

Today I got really mad and really upset at the indifference some people have towards life. I still don’t know what to say about it.

Lindsey and I went to school again for the first time since the first week we were here because we didn‘t have any other work we needed to do today. I helped install some reading games that one of the volunteers brought on the computers in the computer lab and helped an adult student with some work he was doing in Excel. By that time, we went back to Hekima Place and prepared to go into town to go to a Jesuit Refugee Shop, where you could buy goods made by and benefiting refugees.

As we were leaving the shop, just as we crossed the street we came across a man who was laying on the ground with foam pouring from his mouth. He was having a seizure. We had to think quickly. I started running across the street because right next to the Jesuit Refugee shop was a sign for a 24-hour hospital. Lindsey and I ran into the compound and asked for a doctor for this man who was having a seizure. We were directed into one of the buildings, where a nun asked us who the man was (“We don’t know, we just found him laying on the sidewalk!”), if he was a drunkard or a druggie (“ We don’t know! But he’s out there, right now, having a seizure! Please come help him!”), if he was alone (“Yes, yes, he was alone but our friends are with him now! Please, can you come?!”), again, is he on drugs? (“What? No, we don’t know, we told you, please come!”). The nun finally told us all the doctors are out to lunch. (“Well is there anyone who can help us?! Who can help him??”) “Well, the nun-in-charge is across the compound in that building over there.” (“Ok, thanks!” and we ran to the other building. A woman was coming out and I asked her, “Is the nun-in-charge in there?”) “No, I haven’t seen her….but there’s another nun in the pharmacy.” (We ran to the pharmacy and told the nun, “Please, there’s a man outside who needs help! He’s having a seizure.”) Again, a slow question and answer session that got us nowhere. We begged her to come or to get someone who could help. She agreed, even though she said that she wouldn‘t be able to do anything, but then remained in the pharmacy. She put some boxes away, looked through a few cupboards…we waited several minutes, refusing to leave til she came with us. She finally came out and we raced ahead of her, only to look back and see her going into another building, coming out a minute later and handing something to someone else. She was clearly in no hurry, taking her time, but she seemed to be done with whatever business she had and was walking our direction again. But then she turned and went into another building. I looked up and saw “Maria Immaculata Hospital: ’We love and respect life.’” “How ironic,” I though to myself. We watched as she stood and talked with about three other nuns, they laughed, and then she finally started coming with us, but still at a very leisurely pace. We finally got across the street and the man was gone. A kind passerby in a car agreed to take him to the hospital. By that point, the man had regained consciousness and told Lisa, as she was calling an ambulance (the operator never even asked her for her name), that the ambulance never comes, but that he went to a hospital just down the road. Lisa accompanied him to the hospital in the passerby‘s car, where he was prescribed medicine that cost about 3000 shillings--which is about 40-45 US dollars. He didn’t seem to have it and Lisa gave him 500 shillings towards it.

I was in shock from this entire incident. How could a hospital--and not just a hospital, a supposedly RELIGIOUS institution, show so little regard for a man’s life?! Even if they suspected he was on drugs, they didn’t know! And who cares? How can they call themselves a life-saving or soul-saving institution?

I’m still having trouble processing this situation. I want to be able to do something the next time I’m in that situation. I don’t know what I could do, though, without being a doctor. I was so upset by the situation, all I could do on the way back was be angry because being angry helped me think. If I wasn’t angry, I would have just started crying. I don’t know what that means or if that’s good or bad or what. I have a lot of growing to do and a lot of learning to do, that’s all I know. All I know is that I know very little.

The hills are alive with the sound of buffalo...

Today was Maharada (sp?) Day, a national Kenyan holiday to celebrate the establishment of a republic here. So, since none of the girls had school, all of us volunteers and many of the older girls went to hike the Ngong Hills. We hiked four of the hills (although the first hill seemed like four hills in itself!) but couldn’t go beyond that because there were buffalo--and apparently if you come across a buffalo, particularly the ones that wander alone, you’re done. Even if you manage to climb a tree, the buffalo will urinate on its tail and flail its tail around to fling the urine on you while you’re up in the tree. The urine is so acidic that when it lands on your skin, you will ultimately fall out of the tree. And the buffalo wins.

The view from the crests of the hills was just gorgeous. We could see for miles. The two sides of the hills, though, looked like completely different countries. The wind-ward side, which is the side we are staying on, is green and lush and moist and thus highly populated and developed. The lee-ward side, on the other hand, was dry and brown and had very signs of habitation.
Unfortunately, there was a lot of trash up there, so Lindsey and I filled bags with garbage we picked up on the way down, but there was more than we could carry. Some people appreciated it and said so as they passed us--we hoped that they would pick some up as they came down the hills, too. Others laughed at the sight of two girls picking up other people’s trash. I’m not particularly educated on all of the effects of trash on the environment, but I know that if the trash stays there, it will get into the groundwater, which will in turn become contaminated and unhealthy, which in turn will make US, the people who have to drink water to survive, unhealthy. Litter doesn’t just do that here in Kenya, though. It does the same thing in the US, where litter is just as much of a problem. And if you and I don’t pick it up, who will?

A taste of Kiswahili...

Today, Lindsey and I wanted to go to the Catholic mass that is in Swahili, so a lot of the older girls and one of the mums went with us, too. Of course, we knew we wouldn’t understand a single word (although we did understand a few…literally, like 3 words that were said) but the service is different so we wanted to experience it. There is a singing and dancing processional as the priest comes in, when they bring out the Bible, and when the service ends. The songs they sing are also just much more lively and people clap and are much more energetic throughout the service. It was a good experience and I’m glad we went. It was really hot in there, today, though--the service didn’t start til 11:30 and we stood outside for about 45 minutes beforehand waiting for the service right before ours--the one we usually go to-- to end.

Two of the girls, Beth and Mercy, picked some wild greens--the Swahili word is pronounced “mchee-chee” for Lindsey and I down by the shamba and cooked them up with onions and tomatos (pronounced “nya-nyas” in the Swahili word) for us to eat with our pasta at dinner since we don’t eat the meat that went with it for dinner. It was really good! The greens are like a mix between collards and spinach.

After church I read some and actually fell asleep on the couch for quite awhile. After dinner in Baraka (grades 5-7), the girls helped Lindsey and I with our Swahili and then we all danced to music from our ipods! They tried to teach me some dance moves, but I’ll admit I’m a pretty pathetic dancer next to them…haha oh well it was fun : )

Stone by stone...

Today I slept in pretty late--we were all really tired from yesterday even though most of the day we were just sitting in the car. I went into Karen with one of the other volunteers and bought some postcards. We met an older man who was buying a postcard for his grandkids--he has sent them one every week for the past two years that he’s been there. He works for himself and has a nonprofit called African Communities Against Malaria (http://www.acamalaria.org/). He said that even after being here for two years, he’s really only beginning to understand parts of the culture here.

Today was just a lazy day. I finished reading Unbowed (amazing book by the way!) and played a couple games of Stones with the girls. Stones is a game they play a lot. You draw a circle about the size of a large dinner plate in the dirt or on the patio. You put a pile of about 20 rocks in the circle. Each of the two players grabs on stone and the first player throws the stone up in the air, knocks 2-3 stones out of the circle and catches the stone they threw. Then they throw the stone up again and push all but one of the stones back in the circle. If the person does this successfully (without dropping the stone or not getting enough stones out of the circle or not putting the right number of stones back in the circle) then they get to go again. Otherwise, the other player gets to go. You go back and forth until someone “finishes you out” to where there is only one stone left. Then the person whose turn it is has to throw their stone up, knock the stone in the circle out, and then throw the stone up and knock the stone back in the circle, counting 1 out, 2 in, 3 out, 4 in, etc. up to 10. If the player doesn’t do it successfully, the other player gets a chance. And you go back and forth until one of you gets to 10. It’s really fun---and really hard! (Well, hard for me, anyway--the girls are a lot better than me!)

Seek first to understand…

Today we drove to Kitui, a sustainable village run by the Nyumbani children’s home. The drive took about 4 hours, although it probably only should have taken about 3, because there had been a lot of rain near us and so right outside Nairobi the road was literally just mud. And mud + heavy traffic of trucks and buses = deep muddy ruts = slow moving. There were quite matatus that had swerved into muddy ditches and were very stuck right where they were. I suppose that’s largely a product of the crazy drivers behind the wheels of those vehicles. Interestingly, this road is the only road from Mombasa, one of the main ports in Kenya. So really, in many ways, this road was the lifeline to the country. And yet, despite its importance, the infrastructure is so weak, even here, that trucks could barely move along it.

When we got to Kitui, oh what a difference from everything I’d seen before in this country (which to be honest, has been limited). Dry only begins to describe this place. Dirt roads. Desolate land for miles upon miles. The epitome of a desert. They haven’t had decent rains for two years. And yet here was a village. And there were others, outside of the Nyumbani village, who lived here, too.

This is supposed to be a sustainable village. So how do they do that with so little? Well, they built sand dams--7 in total--that held water from what meager rains they got, which raised the water table enough in their shallow wells to provide water for irrigation and drinking. They planted beans and vegetables to eat, with the ultimate goal of being able to produce all of the food they need themselves (a goal not yet achieved, but they’re only a few years into the project). They also planted many, many trees. They have 1000 acres, and they plan to fill several hundred with trees that they can use for firewood, building, and selling. There was a little sign, which I just loved, near one of the tree groves, that said, “The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.” : )

So who lives in this hopefully-soon-to-be-sustainable village? Well, with a similar mission as Hekima Place and Nyumbani children’s home, this village is home to children who have been orphaned by AIDS, some of whom have AIDS but most of whom do not. Instead of hiring mums to live with the children, though, this project seeks to provide for another demographic equally affected by this AIDS epidemic--grandparents (here at the village, specifically, grandmothers).

These grandparents aren’t collecting social security when they reach 65. Their social security was lost when their children--the parents of their grandchildren--were lost. Children, here, ARE your social security. But if your children--now supposed to be self-responsible, healthy adults--are ill or even gone, who will take care of you in your old age? There is no one. The elderly and the young are two very separate generations being made equally vulnerable by a disease that is affecting the generations that exist between them. So this village brings grandmothers here to live in the homes with their own grandchildren as well as with other children who do not have their grandparents here. These grandmothers must agree to, essentially, “adopt” other children into their homes and their hearts when they come to live here.

When we were touring the village, the woman showing us around starting talking to us about the “destitute” lives these children were living before they came here. To my shock and dismay, however, she was doing this with two children--one about twelve years old who surely had learned enough English in school to understand her--right by her feet. In my mind, I thought ‘How could she be so insensitive as to call them “destitute”, essentially, to their faces?!?’ I was appalled and hurt on behalf of the children. When I shared this with Lindsey, I was even more repulsed by her response that I didn’t know that it was hurtful to the children. Here I was, standing up for these kids, and Lindsey had the nerve to tell me I was the one in the wrong! I was annoyed and frustrated and upset.

But I digested it. And later, having a conversation with another one of the volunteers, I processed what she had said. I still intuitively thought that the woman should not have said that in front of the children, but I understood that, in reality, I did not KNOW that it was hurtful or that she shouldn’t say it. I didn’t KNOW that “destitute” had the same meaning and connotation in their culture as it does in mine. I didn’t KNOW that it was shameful or hurtful to talk about being poor or hopeless or “destitute” in their culture. It might be. But it might not. When I have a strong reaction like this, I shouldn’t ignore it, but I should think about it critically and use it as motivation to learn more about the culture I’m observing so that I CAN understand what is and is not culturally acceptable and right and kind. Before I, or anyone else, can pass judgment of ANY kind--even if it seems that there is an injustice occurring and that it must be stopped--we must seek to learn and understand the culture in which this act or event is occurring. Seek first to understand.

Learning to rest as work...

Today, I learned to categorize rest as work…or maybe it’s categorizing work as rest…

Lindsey and I didn’t really have anything to do on the grant and we couldn’t do any filming today because it was cloudy and gray and the mums were busy making chiapatti (no idea how to spell that)--fried, flattened bread, kind of like Indian naan bread.

So we decided to go out to the road-side to get our daily mango, which we like to eat with our 10 o’clock tea. As we were leaving, we saw Mum Gladys and Irene, and asked them if they would like a mango as well, and they said they would love one! And when we saw Lisa, we asked her the same and she gave us 20 ksh to get her one as well. And when we passed through the gate, we asked the Uncle there if he would like a mango and he said he would enjoy one as well. Well at that point, we thought it would be nice if we just got one for all of the mums and Uncles. We ran into Mum Kate and Mum Gladys riding down the road in their car and we told them about the mangoes and they were very excited. And then when we were passing the man at the gate farther down the road that protects all the houses on Muteero Ridge, we started talking to him and he asked us to spell our names for him and then of course we told him we were going to get a mango and asked him if he would like one too and he said he would. So here we were, walking toward the road, and we added up and decided we would need about 20 mangoes just to be safe and make sure we had one for everyone.

Well, as luck or fate would have it, we got to the roadside and the one woman on the corner had 3 mangoes--only one of which was ripe. So we went across the road, but that man had no mangoes. And so we went across and up the main road a bit to a line of about four vendors, and they had oranges and bananas and avocadoes, but, again as luck or fate would have it, no mangoes. So, we asked ourselves, do we just buy oranges or do we ride into town to get our promised mangoes? Well, spontaneity grabbed us and we hopped a bus to town (which really is only a 5-10 minute ride anyway). Our usual supermarket was not open yet (at 10:30 in the morning…), so we went to the KPS store, which only had 9 ripe mangoes. And then we bough the remaining 10 from vendors in the parking lot. Oddly enough, the mango price went from 1 for 20ksh (~25 cents) at the street-side vendor to 9 at 30ksh a piece in the KPS store to 10 at 40ksh (~50 cents) each in the parking lot. We’re fairly certain the 40ksh had a so-called “skin-tax” added to it, as we’ve been warned many a time will happen.

It was worth it, though, because everyone enjoyed their mangoes, as did we. : )

Then, I spent the remainder of the afternoon reading Waangari Muthai’s Unbowed. This book is AMAZING, especially since I’m here in Kenya right now. She really explains a lot about Kenyan culture, tribes, and history.

First of all, I learned about “the scramble for Africa” that was formalized by the Berlin Conference in 1885, where the major European powers literally just divided up the African continent amongst themselves. She talks about the colonialism with a unique subjectivism that is not resentful or angry, but not necessarily happy or welcoming either. She seems to have accepted it as it is and understands that both good and bad have come from it and that we must move forward from where we are but still have a deep understanding of what has happened.

She says “reading and writing fascinated them [the Kenyans] and they embraced it with a passion.” Mum Kate wrote in the margins, “STILL!” There used to be a local, pre-colonial object called a glissandi--which was made from a gourd and has since been discouraged and demonized by the colonists and put away in museums in Europe--that was shaken and rattled somehow as a form education and communication.

The people who became Christianized by the missionaries and colonists were then allowed to be taught to read (the Bible, of course), and hence became known as “athomi”--the “people who read”. The British just called all of the Kenyans who refused to be Christianized and who held on to and advocated local customs “Kikuyus”. What I find interesting and revelatory about that is that the Kikuyu were only one of forty-two tribes in Kenya, but the Europeans did not see that. They saw one people--one people that was to be converted and dominated and “civilized”--and called them all “Kikuyu” because the local culture and traditions and lifestyles meant absolutely nothing to them other than as something that needed to be altered and “improved”. But Wangaari explains that the other tribal groups were as foreign to each other as the Europeans were to them.

The Protestant and Catholic churches were designated different areas of the region to convert. They discouraged traditional ways, but the African Independent Church emerged and embraced both Protestant and Catholic beliefs as well as aspects of traditional Kikuyu culture. I really want to go to a Sunday service at an African Independent Church before we leave.

(By the way, the Kikuyu are the most populous of the Kenyan tribes today and were also at the time of British colonization…many of the girls here are Kikuyu and so was Wangaari Muthai so that’s what she knows and what she writes about… and so that’s what I’m learning right now in this book...although she writes a lot about life generally in both colonial and independent Kenya.)

I learned that the first girl in a Kikuyu family becomes like the second woman of the house and joins her mother in all of her daily work as soon as she can walk. When the British came to the area, they introduced a cash income tax. Before the British, Kenyans dealt mainly in goats as a form of wealth. But now, since all the Kenyans had to pay cash and the only way they could get cash was from the British colonists who had it, the Kenyans had to go work in towns and cities or on settlers’ farms. If they went to the towns or cities, they would have to leave their families in the rural areas and could only return 1-3 times per year. The absence of men in these communities created female-headed households but also increased incidences of prostitution, absent fathers, and sexually transmitted infections--all of which are still significant challenges facing Kenyans today.

This has created a culture that did not exist before. Before, in the often polygamist societies that existed, a man would be ostracized by the community if he were to abandon his family. But now he can just run off to the “urban jungle” and there is not a strong enough community to pressure him to stay and support his family. So now, in the often female-headed households, the eldest daughter assumes the maternal role in the family so that the mother can go off to earn a living by selling second-hand clothing from her arm or doing whatever business or transaction she can to put food on the table and, if she’s lucky, put her younger children in school.

And the disintegration of the family structure will only worsen the AIDS epidemic here--where 15% of adults are already infected. The stigma is not as bad anymore, so hopefully there will be progress made. But what of the one and a half MILLION vulnerable children who have been orphaned already? And what of the children of that fifteen percent, of whom who knows how many have access to ARVs to keep them strong and healthy? And you can’t take ARVs on an empty stomach. So, somehow, that fifteen percent has to find enough money to put food in their stomachs AND to get the ARVs they need….which of course they either have to pay for the generics themselves or get a first dose of PEPFAR’s expensive, 1st-line drugs for free and never be able to afford the 2nd dose, which will probably just create an even more drug-resistant and deadly form of HIV/AIDS….just what we need.

When you start making sense of it all and putting all the pieces together, it all just ends up making even less sense, in the end, that we let this all go on. What are we doing to ourselves? And yes, I mean ourSELVES. This isn’t happening to Africans. This is all of us. We all contribute to these attitudes that destroy us, but we also all have a magnificent power in us to create attitudes that build and attitudes that heal. We just have to open our eyes, step back and not even try to fix or change anything. Just look. Just listen. Just feel. Forget what we think we know or what we know we think. Wipe the slate clean and just think about the people. The trees. The rivers. The way we make each other feel. Get down to the simplest bits of ourselves. The bits we have in common. And the bits that are different. But understand that we all value the bits inside ourselves. And we have to respect what is in our neighbor just as much as we need to respect what is in ourselves.

Lindsey and I were talking and she told me something that I believe she quoted from the Dalai Lama but I could be totally wrong on that. It doesn’t really matter who said it though, because the words are wise:

“Loving our neighbor as ourselves isn’t the goal; it’s the reality. We all love ourselves as our neighbor. The problem is, we don’t REALLY love ourselves.”
It’s been said many a time in many a way…if you want to change the world, start by changing yourself.

Small and beautiful...

Yesterday, after dinner at Maisha house with the youngest girls and Mum Kate, which we/Lindsey filmed, we went to visit the woman who told Gladys about Hands of Hope and encouraged her to ask for support for Hekima Place. She had the scariest dogs I have EVER met. Those are attack dogs like I’ve never seen before. They would have literally eaten us alive if they were not chained to the garage doors, which shook as they barked and tried to launch at us.

Once we got to the safety of her house, we sat down with the woman in her living room, which had about four full-sized couches and three love-seats placed end to end and corner to corner. She was very friendly but didn’t seem to have any really conclusive answers to our questions about the grant application and process. We’re going to try to go the Hands of Hope office in Nairobi next week. And hopefully Genevieve will be able to get through to their office in California (because she’s absolutely wonderful and agreed to help us in this mission of ours from half-way around the world!) Hopefully we’ll make some head-way on the grant soon…

Today, though, we went on an excursion into Karen with Lisa, a permanent Canadian volunteer who works in the office at Hekima Place, and all of the volunteers.

We had to ride a matatu into the Karen town center and then get on another matatu to head out near where Karen Blixen, the author of Out of Africa, had her farm (all 6,000 of her acres!) As we were walking to the road to catch the first matatu, a neighbor driving into Karen stopped and offered us a ride! So Lindsey and Lisa and I hitched a ride with him--his name was George--and the others, who had left ahead of us, caught a matatu.

An interesting little thing that we were taught to note about the matatus is that the license plates are distributed alphabetically, starting with KAA, KAB, etc, up to KB…, with KAA being the oldest and KB being the newest cars. Well, we forgot to check on the matatu we got when we got to the Karen town center and it stalled momentarily in the middle of an intersection. It wasn’t that big of a deal though…people seemed accustomed enough to it. They got it started up again in a minute, but it definitely makes you remember to check the license plate. It’s just hard sometimes because you’re in a scramble just to get on one in the first place! …and to get a fair price, too!

We rode the matatu without any other delays to Kazuri, a local fair-trade organization and factory of hand-made ceramic beads, jewelry, and pottery. Kazuri means “small and beautiful” in Swahili--perfect for a place that creates such beautiful small artwork.

But the real beauty of Kazuri is not in its beads or its bowls, but in its contributions to the development and well-being of the surrounding community. Soon after its founding in 1975, its founder, Lady Susan Wood, realized that there were many women other than the two African women she initially employed that were in great need of work. Wanting to provide opportunities for employment to these women, who were mostly singly mothers, she has since enlarged her workforce to employ over 100 single mothers from the community. In their own words: “In the developing world of today’s Africa, the greatest contribution we can make is to create employment, especially for the disadvantaged and this remains our guiding philosophy. The result is reflected in the strength of the Kazuri family and the beauty of our products.” (www.kazuri.com)

We got to see how they process the clay and how the women mold them into the various shapes of the beads and animals and pots. We also got to see them painting them with meticulous detail. The areas in which they worked looked like excellent working conditions and the women seemed relatively happy and were able to talk among themselves as they worked.

Apparently, they get a lot of custom overseas orders… And from what I’m told, Laura Bush wore Kazuri beads to the Oscars…

After Kazuri we went to the coffee gardens of Karen Blixen. Apparently, when she went bankrupt, she had to sell off all of her land, but she also left some of it to the local people with whom she’d become friends. But of the land that was sold, it was not allowed to be sold off in less than 5 acre plots.

We rode the matatus home, stopped to get some more internet minutes, and headed home. And then I raided Mum Kate’s bookshelves, found about 20 books I want to read before I leave here (of course), and started reading Wangaari Muthai’s autobiography, Unbowed. I’m SOOOO excited about this book : )

Tutuonana.

Full of Thorns, But Full of Beauty…Just like Africa...

Today, I made some tweaks to the grant proposal and then Lindsey and I FINALLY got to interview Mum Kate!!! HOORAYYYY!!! (TRUST ME….this is quite a victory haha) We’ve been trying since we got here, and she finally found time in her very, very busy schedule to let us interview her for both the Hekima Place promo video and for our own documentary. I did the camera work and Lindsey did the interview. I had to adjust the settings quite a bit during the interview because the sun kept playing peek-a-boo, which made me nervous because I didn’t want to mess up the scene—but doing something was better than doing nothing. I discovered that it would be very difficult to do an interview outside if you had to be the interviewer and the camera person.

Anyway, enough shop talk (haha…) after a lovely lunch of avocado on toast and fresh mango (mmmmm), we headed out to the 10 acres of glorious land at the foot of the Ngong hills that Mum Kate hopes to purchase as a permanent home for the Hekima Place family. (“If you profess it, you will possess it” keeps being her motto.) We went out on Sunday, too, but this time we were with all the mums and two of the uncles. This area, this country, is so full of beauty and life. We stood at the end of the road and looked out over a steep, grassy valley scattered with the typically African trees that Karen Blixen describe as so distinctly ‘Africa’: “The trees had a light delicate foliage, the structure of which was different from that of the trees in Europe; it did not grown in bows or cupolas, but in horizontal layers, and the formation gave to the tall solitary trees a likeness to the palms, or a heroic and romantic air like full-rigged ships with their sails furled…”| The scene seems painted, a scene out of a movie that strikes you with the idyllic feeling that none of this land has ever been touched with anything but the most loving and gentle of hands, hands that are grateful for Mother Earth’s blessings. This is what could only be described as God’s country. It did not belong to man. Man—and woman—live with the land, they blend their purpose in life with the simplistic beauty of the earth they walk upon.

As we stood admiring the scenery, a woman trekked across the bottom of the valley with a load on her back and slowly made her way up the hill to catch a matatu so that she could go to do whatever business she had in town. Another woman guided cattle up the side of the hill, maneuvering them among a bush here or a tree there or the telephone line poles that stretched across the open land.

It makes me think: in our busy society, we tend to see people like this as living “the simple life”, and I have to wonder how “simple” it really is. What makes our lives un-simple? Is it really possible to live a “simple” life? Some people’s lives do seem simpler than others, but maybe they’re just not quite as loud as the rest of us. But what does simple even mean? Do we not all have to deal with the same struggles of human interaction and love and death and birth and loss and pain and grief and so on and so forth? Granted, some people encounter more of that than others, but is it determined by whether you live what we like to call a “simple” life as opposed to the contrasting lifestyle that is hectic and busy and filled with so-called “progress”?

Kate told us that “you’ll never hear a Kenyan complain about the weather.” Kenyans are so “in touch with nature”, she said, and so understanding and grateful for the way the world cycles. When it rains, it doesn’t matter if it forces them to change their plans because they know that somewhere there’s a big shamba (garden) that grows their food and that needs the rain. What has happened to us that we live so isolated from our surroundings that we don’t consider the well-being of everyone and everything around us, we only consider how it affects us, personally? If living the “simple” life means being considerate and less self-centered as a society and as a culture, then maybe living un-simply is, quite simply, wrong.

On the front of the “Official Nairobi Yellow Pages” there is a quote from Wangari Mathai, the Kenyan who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2004: “Investing in the protection and conservation of the environment would be investing in peace.” Peace. And protecting our environment. Would we be a more peaceful people if we protected our environment? Instead of fighting over resources we can exploit from the land, what if we all worked together to protect the beauty of the earth? Ah yes, “Imagine all the people, living life this way…” (I don’t think the Beatles were the first to imagine such a world…nor will they be the last.)

Maybe the lives of people here were simpler before colonization, before wealth was measured in paper bills instead of goats and crops were grown to meet each family’s needs instead of mass-produced for gluttony and there was mutual respect between the communities and the earth, whose support they understood they needed.

Looking up at rolling hills above us, shadows darkened parts of the grassy land, while other parts were glowing with the bright, warm sunshine. I was reminded of a comment Mum Kate made that the land was “Full of thorns, but full of beauty…just like Africa.”

Indeed, life—“simple” or not—and Africa—is full of thorns but also overflowing with beauty if we only take time to protect and appreciate the beauty. And maybe we have to accept the thorns in life, too, but just try to spare each other from the wounds and the blood. But I’m finding that deciding what the wounds are and where the blood comes from, so it seems, is the greyest area of all, even when we think we have the best of intentions.

"Grow your souls"...

Today after working on the picture slideshow I went over to Tumaini and joined the rest of the volunteers who had gotten back from the school and were sitting down to watch The Constant Gardener, which Mum Kate had suggested they watch. I’d seen it before, but this time it had a much bigger impact on me, partly just from seeing it a second time but mostly because it takes place right where I am. Much of the movie takes place in the Kibera slum, the largest slum in East Africa (and maybe even all of Africa but I need to check my sources on that) which is just a few miles from where I am here in Karen. If you haven’t seen it, I recommend it. It’s a really moving story, even if you don’t want to do work that takes place in Africa or a developing country. It really just opens your eyes (or it did mine, anyway) to the corruption that does exist in this world. I tend to be rather naïve about people because I generally prefer to see the good in people--it’s an attitude I don’t want to lose, but I’m realizing I have to combine it with a heightened awareness of my surroundings and air of caution (I’m still working on it, but don’t worry I’ll get there). The movie also shows how one person can affect one person enough so that justice can be achieved.

Mum Kate came home towards the end of the movie and sat down and watched the rest of it with us. Afterwards, she sat with us and gave us a few words of wisdom.

Kate is a woman who has lived in an orphanage, was a nun for 20-some years, and eventually got married and lived the family life. After her husband's death, she Googled orphanages in Kenya and up popped Nyumbani orphanage in Karen, Kenya, where she went to work for two years before setting off on the adventure that became Hekima Place.

Mum Kate reminded us--no, demanded us--to grow our souls while we‘re here. It’s all fine and good for us to come to Africa and want to help these girls and learn a bit about another culture, but it can’t stop here. We are responsible, as citizens of the world, to do our part in seeking justice and in helping others. People are not dispensable, an idea that this movie fights against. This movie, she urged, cannot just be another movie to us. There is “no way in hell” (and those are her words) that this movie is fiction. Maybe the names and companies are different, but the ideas and the events are true. She told us to dig deep for the truth in this world. We all have a different idea of what truth is--”some of us are at the top of the ‘T’, some of us are at the bottom of the ‘U’, and some of us are in the middle of the ‘H’--and we just have to piece it all together. We have to sort through the lies and the corruption and the greed and the righteousness to find what is true and to find what is just. “If all the prayerful ones would seek justice and all the justice-seekers would pray, we’d have a much better world.” She also told us to “be wary of righteousness, even me”.

We also learned from Mum Kate that PEPFAR (President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief) only provides 1st line drugs and won’t provide generic brands. So while PEPFAR’s increased funding from the US government sounds great, doctors here won’t actually prescribe it because the first dose is free from PEPFAR, but the doctors know that their patients will never be able to afford the second dose. I also learned that ARVs (anti-retroviral drugs, which help prevent HIV from becoming full-blow AIDS) can have very serious side-effects, particularly on your liver and mental health. And ARVs cannot be taken on an empty stomach, which presents a serious problem for many of the poor population that’s being given free ARVs from NGOs in slums like Kibera. What often will happen is that the NGO will give a person food to eat so that when they come to get their dose of ARVs they’ll have a full stomach. But the people getting this food come from whole families who don’t have enough to eat, so they’ll selflessly share the food with their family. Unfortunately, though, when they do that, they’ll end up getting extremely sick from the ARVs--worse than if they hadn’t even taken them. It just goes to show how much depth of consideration must be given to the complex issues we face in this world.

And as hard as it is, we have to remember, in all that we do, that what works for you, might not work for your neighbor or for the person who lives half-way around the world.

A Maasai Man Never Sells...

Today I went to the English Mass with the girls again. Afterwards, Mum Kate took us to see the land they were looking to buy. The other lands they were looking at actually fell through, but this one was MUCH bigger and a MUCH better deal so it seems to have all worked out! Mum Kate said it was by the grace of God because the man selling it was a Maasai man, and ``A Maasai man never sells.`` The land is absolutely breathtaking, set amid the rolling hills of Kenya.

Then, Lindsey, Nancy, Rebecca and I went to the Ya Ya market, a Maasai market--although Masaai people were not the only tribe represented there. Lindsey and I didn`t want to buy anything since we are going to be here for awhile and if we start buying things now we might end up spending too much. The people at this market were very aggressive. Similar to what I experienced in Ghana, even if you tell them you`re ``just looking`` or you ``didn`t bring any money, today…sorry!``, they`ll still try to get you to start bargaining a price for their necklace or basket or wood carving. You`ll make a lot of friends whose names you`ll soon forget; and while their aggressive nature can often be frustrating, the people are friendly and you have to remind yourself they`re just trying to make a living like anyone else.