swahili

I have been waking up lately thinking in swahili. Not full sentences, mind you, but there is always at least one word on repeat in my brain. Yesterday it was "kifaranza", the word for french language. Couldn't it at least be a useful word? Interestingly, I spoke some french with a man from Niger later that day. Earlier in the week, the word was "mgonjwa" meaning "to be a patient" or "to be sick." I have been telling people that my hand is sick, Mkono yangu ni mgonjwa.

Swahili started out easy enough. Who can't remember "Ninapenda kahawa", or I love coffee. I had that phrase down in 5 minutes. I could say, I am eating, I am from Canada, Hello, how is your morning. However, I cannot spend 2 1/2 years telling people i am from canada and i love coffee. Hence, my language lessons became more complex. I learned past tense, negative, future tense. All relatively simple, except actual words completely change their spelling in some cases. For example, I eat is "Ninakula." If you want to say I don't eat, it becomes "Sili." The only letter left from the word kula (to eat) is the letter L! How am I supposed to follow that! It only becomes more difficult when you get into the 9 different noun classes, the exceptions for each class, and the possessive pronouns get really messy. I hardly know what a possessive pronoun is in english!! (I have also learned how little I know about the structure of the english language - like what is a subject prefix and a gerrand? Who knew these words were in the english language!)

It is coming though, polepole, (slowly) and people appreciate the efforts I make to converse with them. They are often quite amazed I can actually answer questions in swahili and ask me why I am even trying to learn it when everyone in Nairobi speaks english. I explain I am moving to another town, and they usually raise their eyebrows, start laughing, and explain I will have to learn the mother tongue of Kalenjin in addition to swahili. As if my brain could stand any more. I already pull dutch words out when I can't think of the swahili word. It sounds strange to say "Ninakwenda boodscaapen doen" (I am going to do errands - first half is swahili, second half is dutch).
I will persevere, and perhaps one day I will think only in swahili and have difficulty speaking english...

lenny.

I learned today that my friend Lenny, aka caveman, died this past saturday.
My heart is heavy for the loss but I am relieved that Lenny is now free from the pain of alcholism and street life.

I met Lenny six years ago at the Mustard seed, a homeless shelter in downtown Calgary. I only knew his street name, Caveman, for about two years. It was in a rare moment of sobriety that he told me his real name. Lenny did, indeed, look a bit like a caveman. He was blind in his right eye, so wore a black pirate-like patch over it. His hair was long, wild, and scraggly and his bushy beard often had remnants of food in it. He had a wildly decorated stick he used as a cane and wore the same clothes for weeks at at time. I have seen people cross the street to avoid him, I crossed the street to meet him.

Despite his "rugged" appearance and almost constant state of drunkennes, Lenny had a soft heart and an engaging personality. I think even the police liked him. He was well-known and well-liked by paramedics and downtown clinic staff. In fact, I was behind Lenny in line at the downtown medical clinic a few weeks ago. The staff greeted him like an old friend, or a prodigal son. They treated him and let him sober up in the waiting area. As we left the clinic together, Lenny wished me well on my journey to Kenya. I wished him well period.

I will have a moment of silence today in rememberance of my friend Lenny.

Kenya is cold and other cultural lessons

There is an incorrect generalization (made by Canadians at least) that all of Africa is hot. I have not gone a day without wearing a fleece jacket and been huddled around a hot cup of tea. Kenyans keep reassuring me the hot weather is coming, but I will believe that when I stop seeing my breath in the morning.

When ordering coffee or tea, one must indicate if they want it “black” or “white.” I have also seen it advertised as “ebony” and “ivory” (cue in Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton). I have forgotten several times and ended up with milk in my tea and milkless coffee.

Mamas and Babas can text message (called sms here) on their cell phones faster than I can figure out how to turn mine on. I am considering hiring a grandma as my cell phone tutor.

In addition to learning Swahili, I am concurrently learning British English. I am learning to refer to the boots and bonnets on cars, run to the loo, drive on carriageways next to lorries, and stand in queues.

Speaking of driving, I am constantly trying to get into the drivers seat despite the fact that I am a passenger. As the steering wheel is on the right side of the car, I am still shocked when vehicles drive by and I mistakenly think they are allowing a 6 year old drive the car. And since they drive on the left side of the road, I have nearly been hit several times because I look the wrong way on the road before crossing.

In the weekend newspaper I read about everything from a dead fathers spirit beating up his living son, to what modern Kenyan men want in a woman (and I am not it!), to an interview with Stephen Lewis, to an update on Britney Spears debacles, and finish up with a personal ad from a man seeking a second wife for reasons of procreation (with his wife’s permission).

I have learned that Kenyans have never lost an Olympic steeplechase race and often win the Gold, Silver and Bronze medals. Why does anyone else try?

Kenya is well-known abroad for its coffee, but they also produce high quality tea. Africa is the source for 30% of the world’s tea. On the news recently, it was highlighted that the farmers union fought for and received a wage increase. They will now get 6 shillings per kilo. That is about 10 cents for every kilo of tea they harvest. How much did you pay for your tea today?

The book “The Constant Gardener” was apparently banned in Kenya for depicting corrupt government officials, but the movie directors managed to film part of the movie in the Nairobi slums.

The obituaries are often headed by the words “promotion to glory.” I look forward to my eventual promotion though hope it doesn’t happen any time soon.

I am staying at a guest house located on what is called “Nairobi’s safest street.” It is not the fact that I am surrounded by government buildings, the prison headquarters, or there is a large convent and catholic school that make it safe. It is the heavily fortified and well-guarded Israeli embassy a few hundred metres away. There are large barricades called a “friendly checkpoint” that prevent drive-bys, manned by several armed men to insure it remains the “safest street.”

Some interesting signs I have seen around town:
Inside of a bus
“No hawking or preaching”

A billboard near the hospital entrance advertising for a “safe” driving school
“Hospital ceilings are boring”

Extreme public transport.

Matatu
A 15 person metal coffin otherwise referred to as a vehicular mode of public transport in Kenya. Operated by a driver who may or may not be clinically insane; and a conductor, who is a adept salesperson, banker, and trapeze artist rolled into one.

Let me begin with a joke told by a Kenyan colleague.
A priest died and was standing at the pearly gates of heaven expecting a warm welcome. Unfortunately, he was informed that he would be going to hell. Behind him was a matatu driver, who sailed through the pearly gates.
Stupefied, the priest exclaimed, “But God, I have dedicated my whole life to you, and always obeyed you! Why am I not going to heaven, and that matatu driver is?”
God answered, “My son, whenever you preached, everyone slept. When the matatu driver drove, everyone prayed.”

Forget extreme sports like mountain biking, heli-boarding, or kite surfing. Taking public transport in Nairobi should be an X-games sport for the fearless. My on-going experiences with public transport are leading me to consider wearing a helmet and full body armour to navigate the streets here. Let me describe for you, with no exaggeration, my recent matatu experience…

I waited on the side of Waiyaki Way for a “City Hoppa” bus to return to downtown Nairobi. No bus was in sight, and since there is no such thing as a schedule, I decided the #23 Matatu that screeched to a stop at my feet might be a more efficient way to return to town. The conductor swung from the side of the van, sliding door open, yelling unintelligible destinations before the van even slowed to less than 50 km/hour. There were empty seats on board, so the conductor heckled incessantly (or rather promoted the virtues of the matatu) to every person on the road until they entered the matatu, whether or not it was going in their desired direction. Although not overweight, I struggled to wedge my hips between the seats before settling in against the window. As I surveyed the insides, I could see that the driver took pride in his ride. The ceiling was decorated in gold and red vinyl, punctuated by matching covered buttons. Each seat had robin blue and daffodil yellow plastic covers over the headrests. The windows were mysteriously free of mud or the layers of black exhaust that seemingly blanket everything in the city. Small speakers were mounted along the length of the van, blaring Swahili hip-hop at a tolerable decibel. The driver looked as though he believed he was driving a low rider car with hydraulics on the streets of Chicago. I had a good feeling about this matatu, but then he started driving.

Driving is done on the left side of the road here, except if you are a matatu driver. We were suddenly lurching across 3 lanes of traffic, weaving in and out of any possible inch of space on the road. Waiting in a queue is not an option here, curbs are meant to mount, and red lights are optional. The driver sped into the far right lane only to have a passenger indicate his desired stop by rapping on the window with a 20 shilling coin. No sooner had the passenger rapped twice on the window, the driver was suddenly on the left side of the road, hitting the curb, nearly taking out several pedestrians, and the conductor was hanging off the side of the van, swinging like a monkey, and shouting for new riders before we had even lurched to a stop. We didn’t leave again until the vacated seat was filled with a new victim. I said a little prayer and decide to relax a bit and started envisioning heaven. The Swahili hip-hop seemed pretty decent and I ever so slightly bop my head to the beat, trying to blend in, like I have always lived in Kenya. Suddenly the only English phrase of the song blares above my head; “Black Supremacy!!!” before returning to the Swahili lyrics. My head bopping stops. I smile awkwardly to no one. We are almost downtown. We arrive at the main hub, near the Hilton, and we hop off, one by one, before the matatu stops moving. A group of European tourists stand and stare as though they are on some sort of human-sighting safari before they board their roomy air-conditioned bus. The conductor is already jumping on the sidewalk, recruiting people for the ride, possibly reassuring future customers that all the passengers arrived alive. Our prayers were answered for another day, another ride.

good parents

I've got good parents

When I was an unruly teenager, my father used to say, "If every father were like me, the world would be a better place." I would roll my eyes and never believe it to be true.
I have learned that it is true.
If all parents were like my parents, the world would indeed be a better place.

My father, at the tender age of 67 (am I allowed to tell?) just spent half the summer riding his Goldwing across the country to attend a motorbike convention. Last year, he drove the Highway to the Sun in Montana, and has hopes to ride to Alaska in the near future. There was a time when I did not think my dad was so cool.

In grade twelve, my brother and I had a little party while my parents were away. The only damage was to my dad's leather chaps, which "Paul" had decided to try on, and the zipper pulled off the leather about an inch. My mother had taught me to be an excellent seamstress at a young age, so I fixed them, thinking no one would know. After my parents return, we were sitting at the supper table and my father asked what happened to his chaps.
"What makes you think something happened?" I asked as innocently as possible.
"Because they were unzipped on the outer leg. I always have them zipped."
Oh crap, I thought to myself. What am I going to say?
"Alida's friend ripped them at the party," my brother Eric nonchalantly offered.
My father sat waiting for a reply, uncharacteristically quiet.
"Well, you are the only dad at school who rides a motorbike, and all my friends think you are so cool, so Paul wanted to try on your chaps. Because he thinks you're cool," I offer.
Another quiet pause…
"Your friends think I'm cool?"
I didn't get in trouble for the party or the torn chaps.

Riding a motorbike is not the only thing that makes my father cool.
My father tells me he loves me everyday.
My father has helped run a summer camp for children and adults with developmental disabilities for over 15 years and loves every minute of it.
My father volunteers just about as much as he used to work. He devotes an evening a week to people with disabilities, has provided respite to families coping with dementia, delivers furniture to carless people, drove single parents to a weekly meeting for years, cuddled babies in the hospital, and now volunteers in the church nursery just so he can hold babies (parents, bring your babies to him!). His latest bragging right involves singing at the Native Women's talent show, in jail, and receiving a t-shirt for it. He struts around like a peacock in that shirt. My father actually brags about knowing convicted murderers and playing scrabble with them.
Really, you can't get much cooler than that.
I've got a good father.



My mother can do anything. Really, if she decides she wants to try something, she will get a book, read about it, and do it (okay, maybe not extreme mountain biking). When I was five, she built a picnic table for my dollhouse to an exact scale. She decided to learn how to spin wool, so she checked out books from the library, bought a second-hand spinning wheel, some dirty wool from a farmer, and transformed the wool from the sheeps back to a hat that I still have. She recently decided to try watercolour painting. Her first painting is a mountain scene that I would frame and hang on my wall. Give her a scrap of fabric and she will turn it into a ball gown. She is resourceful, and creative and imaginative.

My mother's life has been one of service to others, and I don't think she even realizes that.
Shortly after marrying, my parents became foster parents for seven emotionally and developmentally delayed boys. For two years she mothered them, cooked for them, hugged them, took them to soccer practice and doctors appointments. In short, she loved them.
Having children did not stop her service. My dad used to take us for ice cream on Saturdays while my mother served meals in a soup kitchen. We indulged ourselves while she indulged others.
She operated a support group for single parents that was so successful, social workers around the city referred clients to the groups. It was a full-time job to run that group; arrange meals, rides, outings, speakers, free haircuts, free mechanics for broken cars, retreats, crafts, crisis counseling. She could easily spend 40 hour a week volunteering, and she never once complained about it.
During one of my mother's birthday parties, a mentally ill woman came to the door claiming some one was trying to murder her. My mother spent the whole evening listening to the woman, and then getting to her an appropriate place for help. We ate cake while she counseled in the spare room. Indulging others.
She has served as a deacon at church so many times and helped so many people that she discovered from a prescription drug addict a few years back that "her number was on the streets." 1-800-Marian-helps. Indulging others.
She is now starting a grandmothers-to-grandmothers group in Edmonton to raise money and offer support to the grandmothers raising their grandchildren here in Kenya.
If I can indulge in service to others a mere fraction of what my mother has indulged, I will be a glutton for sacrificial love and unbridled compassion.
I've got a good mother.

pole

My broken hand garnered me no sympathy in my journey to Kenya, but it has since drawn the attention of most passerby's who cluck a "pole" as they shake their heads in my direction. Pole is one of the first Swahili words I have learned. It is pronounced polay, and means sorry. Not a sorry out of pity, but a sorry out of true concern for my well-being. If the person continues with dialogue, they next inquire, "in which country did this occur?" When they hear it was in Canada, you see their shoulders relax, and an audible sigh of relief that it was not in Kenya that I was so tragically wounded. Pole. Concern for my well-being. A warm welcome to Kenya.

I arrived in Nairobi on Tuesday afternoon, to a "sorry" at the visa desk, and my tourist visa was stamped without question. I was pleasantly shocked when I retrieved all of my bags from the conveyer belt and began apologizing to Nyamuhu for loving books so much that I felt I had to bring a whole library with me to Kenya. Books, and my favourite cereal bowl, and my sacred bodum French press, and a Frisbee and an exercise ball.

Wednesday morning we were off to Eldoret, for a whirlwind tour of meetings and greetings. Three hundred twelve kilometers and 9 hours later we arrived after 4x4ing through muddy construction, crossing the equator twice while seemingly going in the same direction, and admiring the breathtaking mountain views through cold breaths that fogged up the land cruiser. As we rose to an elevation of almost 8,000 feet I added every possible layer of clothing and wrapped myself in the hotel wool blankets upon arrival. And everyone thought I would be hot.

Thursday brought some sunshine and more warm welcomes from the Plateau hospital staff. I was impressed with the hospital staff, the cleanliness, and the bright murals painted in the maternity ward. I was also introduced to my host family, a lovely couple and their son, with whom I will live for 2 months once I return to Eldoret. Mama is a nurse at the hospital, and Baba is a retired school teacher turned farmer. Timothy, my new brother, helps on the farm. He and Baba asked me if I had ever milked a cow.
Oh boy. It may be good physical therapy for my healing hand, but I am hoping my therapy sessions don't start at 5 a.m.

I caught a glimpse of my future home, complete with wood burning fireplace (which I think I may need on a frequent basis), and 3 bedrooms (hint, visitors are welcome). We stopped in a grocery store where I discovered I can get sensodyne toothpaste and sunlight laundry detergent. It will seem like I never left Calgary!

On our safari home, we passed several long distance runners, some of who may be training for world competition. There are a few Olympic gold medalists living in my new town. My measly 5 km jog is going to look pretty lame; I will have to find some back road to avoid feeling like a slug.

The weekend has been spent wandering downtown Nairobi. I unknowingly meandered a few hundred metres away from the president at a prayer meeting (I was wondering why there were several black sedans and police everywhere). I was on a quest for an internet café and coffee. Can you blame me?

Monday I begin my Kiswahili lessons, and perhaps I will impress the teacher with my knowledge of pole and asante. Maybe I can learn "don't worry, I broke my hand in Canada."

gravity.

it hasn't hit me yet. what i am about to do. leave my stable, happy life for something totally unknown. moving to africa. all the poetic words come to me in that state between sleeping and waking. not 10 minutes ago, i was lying on my thermarest writing a bestseller in my head. and now. wordless.

i often wonder why i am moving to africa. why that continent fascinates me. there is need everywhere in the world. lennie, a 40 year alcoholic living on the streets of calgary, needs someone. new sudanese immigrants trying to navigate canada need someone. paralyzed patients in the foothills hospital need someone. but i have a sneaking suspicion it is not me that they need. someone else needs me, and they don't live here.

running into the pain. this phrase has been on a loop in my head for months now. i don't know where it came from. maybe i stole it from someone else's blog. running into the pain. that is what i feel like i have to do. not that i will not also experience great joy, but i feel i must share the immense burden of pain that my african sisters and brothers are bearing. i must share in their suffering, but find hope as i offer to share the yoke.

it hasn't hit me yet. what i am about to do. sharing words and cups of coffee with friends across the country has not felt like goodbye. i laugh, i tell stories like nothing has changed. then give a quick hug and say "see ya later." i don't like goodbye. i prefer till we meet again. two years is long. two years is short. it hasn't hit me yet.

i have about 20 cards in my carry on suitcase from people who think i am nice and brave and loving and kind and courageous. is this the same alida i know? why i am so blessed to be in the company of so many people who like me and love me, i do not know. it hasn't hit me yet.

2200 is my departure time. i will step on a plane and defy gravity as it hurtles at 900km/hr to my new home. i think, amongst the quiet clouds, it will hit me.

fall from grace

"you want to go biking in whistler?" the facebook message asked.

"sure, sounds like fun." i replied.

we drove up the sea to sky highway, my brother eric and i, happily anticipating a day of bonding over full suspension bikes. after strapping on full body armour and cramming on my full face helmet, i turned to face the bottom of the hill. giant jumps and ramps faced me. tachycardia set in.

"do i have to ride those?"

"no, those are for crazy people" came the reply.

phew.

we started out with a green run. fun, but easy. i wanted a challenge. eric led me down a blue run that involved teeter-toters and elevated boardwalks. getting better. we headed to another blue run, crank-it-up, and that we did. i had never ridden anything like it. the successive jumps felt like a self-propelled roller coaster. natural endorphins being released.

"let's do it again" i said.

"we'll do this a couple more times, warm you up for a-line, the most infamous downhill trail. and then i'll get you a t-shirt"

it started out well. i felt comfortable, getting some air, but under control. i was looking forward to the roller coaster ride. one small jump, getting a little bigger, under control.

then suddenly...

i am suspended, floating, seemingly trapped in time. where's my bike?

"this is not going to be pretty"

bump, bump, bump, bump, bump.

my helmet hitting the ground, body grinding to a halt in the dirt.

open your eyes. open your eyes. open your eyes.

open.

okay, i am conscious. that's good.

okay, wiggle your toes. wiggle.

move your fingers. move.

spine pain? back pain? no.

okay, get off the trail before you are run over.

where are my shoes? my shoes came off? oh boy, this is not pretty.

a few riders stopped, my brother, not seeing me come, ran back up the trail. he saw me laying on the trail, shoes off.

i broke my little sister!! i broke my little sister!!

i moved to the side of the trail. blood draining from my face. cold. clammy. nausea.

"i'm going to throw up"

'okay why don't we sit you up" came a voice from beside me.

"no, i think i will lie in the recovery position" i reply.

take deep breaths. take deep breaths. nausea passed.

i feel something whoosh by my leg. another rider. he doesn't even slow down. almost runs me over but rides over my bike instead.

"okay, i feel better. i am going to move over"

a whistler first aid guy shows up, starts asssessing me. "what is your name?"

"alida fernhout, i am in whistler, b.c., the date is thursday, august 23, 2007"

he laughs, "you seem to know what you're doing"

"i'm a neuro-surg nurse. i have no numbness or tingling, strong x4"

"great! i have to fill out a few forms, ask you some dumb questions, bear with me"

nausea again. blood drains. cold. clammy.

"i have to throw up"

"go ahead, don't be shy"

don't be shy, i think. i am about to vomit on the side of a mountain with lots of people watching. don't be shy. i vomit.

"your heart rate is a little slow"

"how's the bike?" I ask.

"DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE BIKE!!" comes a chorus of voices.

we take off my arm guards and my right glove. my pinky finger is in a strange position. i think it's broken. but i can move my legs so i am happy.

i recover enough to walk off the trail to a waiting quad which takes me to a truck. load the bikes, head to the hospital.

"where do i put my bike?" i ask.

"quit worrying about the bike!" eric says .

it turns out this kind of thing happens often enough that the hospital has its own bike locks.

i am seen by a nurse, then a resident, then an xray tech (nausea again), then a doctor. i need to go to vancouver to see a plastic surgeon. my pinky hand bone broke, punctured the skin, then retreated back to its resting place.

back down the sky-to-sea highway. eric is worried. he thinks he broke me. i tell him not to worry. i am high on my own endorphins.

several hours later i see a resident. i ask him what year he is. i don't want a first year resident touching my hand. i am moving to africa in 10 days. he is second year. okay, you can assess my hand. finally a 4th year resident comes in.

"you will probably need surgery, but we will try to reduce it and see what happens"

see what happens. did i mention that i am moving off the continent in 10 days?

right before he reduces it, i find out the second year resident is actually an ears, throat, nose specialist. well, he has to learn somehow.

he reduces it. i didn't know my fingers were allowed to be moved like that . i kick my feet and take deep breaths even though my hand is frozen.

they splint it and send me for an xray. it is set perfectly.

"can't get better than that!" proudly announces the resident.

'great! can i go now?"

"good luck in kenya!"

my bones are still perfectly set, i can walk and i know who i am, and i am still headed to kenya... tomorrow.

and thus was my fall from grace.

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