love them in the moment.

BBC radio became one of my best friends while living in Kenya. I spent my evenings listening to world report and even relied on their reporters to find out what was going on in town during the post election crisis.

here is a story about the street boys (mostly, there are some girls as well) that live on the streets of eldoret, passing their days by sniffing glue and trying to help you park your car for a few shillings. one tried to sell me a cell phone he had just stolen out of a car. they were mostly good kids, but from poor homes, gone to the city to find food or make money and end up hooked on glue.

it is likely that i have encountered the children in these photos. i was at a loss as what to do with the strung out 8 year old boy or the pair of 9 year old girl prostitutes. they told me the rescue centre was horrible, if they were fed, and they could get more food on the street from well wishers. they "work" by helping stop traffic when you want to park your car or they will

"protect" your car in the evenings while you are at the grocery store. their future looks grim - their brains are fried, they miss all their developmental milestones, they don't go to school.

all i could do was try to love them in the moment.

Orphans continue a tough struggle on the streets

By Will Ross BBC News, Eldoret, Kenya A report by Save the Children says that four out of five children in orphanages still have a living parent. Orphanage life means that millions of children are unnecessarily at risk of the widespread dangers of living in institutions, including rape, exploitation, trafficking and beatings. Many orphaned children in Kenya prefer life on the streets In Kenya a combination of a lack of money, physical abuse, the effects of HIV/AIDS and last year's inter-tribal violence are taking their toll. Many children forced onto the streets are pushed into a life of crime. 'The Barracks' Just off the main street running through the centre of Eldoret you will find an army of glue-sniffing street kids. Almost all the children have a small bottle of glue hanging from their mouths and with glazed eyes they appear semi tranquilised. "It makes me sleepy and I have less stress," says 15-year-old Jimmy, who after years on the streets looks younger than 10. "I live on the verandas in a box," he tells me. "Life here is very hard with no food, nowhere to sleep and no-one to care for you," says Evans Kariuki. "It is not safe. You can die here. People fight. There is a lot of violence. The police come sometimes and take you and beat you." Broken families In another part of Eldoret I meet Mary, her husband James and their six-year-old daughter Grace. Neither of them have regular employment and their single-room home smells of an illegal alcoholic brew - one way of raising a few coins to buy food. Mary and her daughter Grace struggle through poverty on a daily basis They were a family of four, but at the age of seven Juma ran away for a life on the streets. "I tried to look for him but it was difficult because his friends on the streets kept hiding him," said James. Mary is sure Grace will not follow in her brother's footsteps. "I can take care of her because she is a girl," said Mary before adding that Grace had been going to nursery school, but she is now at home because they cannot afford the fees of less than $20 (£12) a term. New hope I later meet Juma at a centre for former street children. Now 13, he is getting food and goes to a primary school thanks to ECCO - Ex Street Children Community Organisation. Many children have been rehabilitated, but problems still remain "I ran away because I was beaten at home. Life used to be good at home but whenever I made a mistake my mother beat me. Once my finger was even cut with a knife, "said Juma who now dreams of becoming a pilot. For the staff at ECCO discipline is a challenge. "The hardest thing is keeping them in line - asking them to follow rules which they are not used to and most of them have been sniffing glue for years so stopping that is hard," said Mercy Rotich, the programme officer for social work and education at ECCO. Hard struggle As I leave the centre there is news of another crisis. A 13-year-old street boy has been raped and after being discharged from hospital urgently needs a home. Institutions have sprung up in Eldoret to take in some of the street children but there are many complaints of inhumane treatment and concerns that they do not have the children's interest at heart. "You talk to a child who has been in a home for a few months and they do not want to go back. You talk to a child who has been in a home and they do not want to go back Mercy Rotich "They tell you about the problems of being beaten or denied food. These homes are getting money but the money is not reaching the beneficiaries," said Mercy Rotich. "Some of them are not going to school and yet there is money for them to be taken to school. They are not being taken back home yet they have funds to trace these homes." The government agrees that there are problems with some of the homes and knows some organisations are formed not to help the children but to make money. "Briefcase NGOs - I know they are there and they are possibly swindling money from the donors and funders and well-wishers. It is now our role to ensure that what is given to the child is not going to the dogs," said Philip Nzenge, the children's officer in charge of the district. 'Damning indictment' Back at The Barracks several street children told me they had run away from Eldoret Rescue Centre and preferred life on the streets. The Rescue Centre is a series of metal shacks perched on a hillside on the outskirts of town. The staff denied that children were beaten but admitted that some of them struggled to cope with order and discipline after a life on the streets. Although this is a step up from life on the streets, conditions for the 233 children are grim and bunk beds are crammed into the metal shacks. Staff said there was a plan to build permanent structures. I found a month-old girl there - born on the streets but perhaps destined to spend her next 18 years in this centre. It is no wonder then that Save The Children is calling for stricter monitoring of children's institutions. It also wants funds to be channelled into helping families support their children describing it as outrageous that children are separated from their families when they have parents who, given a bit of help, could look after them.

body parts

a few of you have asked me what i do in my free time and once in awhile i reply that i am constructing various body parts for an organization i volunteer for.

my emails between myself and people at the organization and another volunteer have become increasingly interesting...

"i'm just about done with the uteruses and i currently have 6 placentas in various stages of construction. how is the new stretchy perineum?"

i volunteer for an organization here in vancouver called Canadian Network for International Surgery. They teach improved surgical and obstetrical skills to African doctors in various countries. to demonstrate the theoretical aspects of emergency or surgical care they need something to practice on. ideally, one can do this before you get to an actual patient.

you can buy medical mannequins that look pretty real but they are quite expensive. so a number of people have designed a low-cost prototype that is currently made in Canada and carried over by a surgeon teaching the course. i volunteered to sew for CNIS without really knowing what it was i would be sewing. it's probably a good thing they don't advertise the specifics on their website. i may have not signed up to design a placenta.

so, here is an example of the medical mannequins that cost $500.

Birthing Simulator

Click picture to enlarge

$ 525.00

53x33x43 cm

8,0 kg

Birthing Simulator

and here is our version...

you say,

"but alida,

that is an upside-down cat carrier,

with padded walls...

for a psychotic cat perhaps?"

let me demonstrate how i have constructed and birthed a baby in my living room...

here is the top of the "mothers" abdomen.

what you see is a piece something that is supposed to simulate the skin.

it is actually made from vinyl, foam, and elastic and can be cut to be able

to simulate a c-section.

below is the underside of the piece...

if the baby decides to come out the right way, here she comes...

the front of the "cat carrier" is now a womens perineum.

baby is crowning...

almost there, keep pushing...

congrats, it's a girl, and look there is a healthy placenta!

my homemade placenta on the left and the expensive medical model on the right.

mine is made from stretchy purple material that i found in the bargain bin at a fabric store,

a piece of foam from the inside of a whoopee cushion procured at a dollar store, and

some coloured rope covered with glad "press n seal".

bet the old guy in the white suit never thought that press n seal would every be used to make an umbilical cord.

i must say, it works quite nicely.

i can't forget the uterus! it takes the most time to make...

you can remove the top abdominal piece and expose the inside of the "torso."

you are looking through the top of the cat carrier at the uterus and the bladder.

the uterus is made of red tshirt material and is the shape of a water bottle.

the neck of it is snapped to the "front door" and the baby and uterus fit inside.

someone very clever decided that 1980's shoulder pads would make perfect bladders.

the uterus is also covered in press n seal.

i don't think i will every be able to use that stuff for food now... maybe you won't either. sorry!

so, my weekend productivity will be used to instruct african doctors how to improve their surgical skills. who knew that my sewing skills would be put to such use...

i had once planned to go to design school and wanted to work for the likes of burton designing outerwear.

guess there was a change of plans.

i am now designing innerwear...

now, to clean up the disaster of my apartment for my guests coming tomorrow. not sure they want to sleep with the placentas that are currently strewn on the couch...

so, my friends, that is my body parts project. now you know, and i bet you wished you never asked :-)

the danger of a single story

a thought provoking, challenging, and funny TED talk by chimamanda adichie - a gifted nigerian writer.

me, a monk, and i

"my Lord God, i have no idea where i am going. i do not see the road ahead of me. i cannot know for certain where it will end. nor do i really know myself, and the fact that i think i am following your will does not mean that i am actually doing so. but i believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. and i hope i have that desire in all that i am doing. i hope that i will never do anything apart from that desire. and i know that, if i do this, You will lead me by the right road, though i may know nothing about it. therefore i will trust You always though i may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. i will not fear, you You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone."

"in one sense we are always traveling, and traveling as if we did not know where we were going.

in another sense we have already arrived.

we cannot arrive at the perfect possession of God in this life, and that is why we are traveling and in darkness. but we already possess Him by grace, and therefore, in that sense, we have arrived and are dwelling in the light.

But oh! how far have i to go to find You in Whom i have already arrived!"

"My God, i frankly do not understand your ways with me. you fill me with desires that people have been canonized for having and for carrying out. then You tell me to to carry them out, and You tell me in such a way that it would seem to be a sin if i carried them out. then You make the desires grow more and more until they consume the very foundations of my life. are You trying to kill me?"

"i will travel to You, Lord, through a thousand blind alleys.

You want to bring me to You through stone walls."

i've been reading "dialogues with silence" by thomas merton (all above quotes are written by merton).

outwardly, i have nothing in common with merton. he was a trappist monk who wore brown robes and lived on a commune. he was bald and probably gardened. i'm a girl living in vancouver with a growing collection of shoes and i like red sweaters. i live near the beach and don't pray for hours a day.

inwardly, i feel as though i am reading about my own inner struggle, though merton's writings are more than 50 years old and from a very different place. it is comforting to know that a guy who devoted his entire life to living strictly godly life struggled with solitude, silence, and finding God. i figured, if anyone has found God, it would be a monk in a scratchy robe.

i find comfort in these writings.

i am learning to sit in silence.

and in that silence, i am learning to hear the Spirit of God.

without Him ever saying a word.

water

ever thought about how much you pay for water by the litre? i mean other than when you pay $2 for a small bottle of water (that probably came out of the tap and was then bottled and sold as "extra purified"

I just read about the current price of water in the Nairobi slums - for one jerry can, which is about 20-30 litres of water, people have to pay over a dollar. so, the poorest people in the world, are paying more than their daily salary, for something simple, yet absolutely necessary. now, would i ever consider paying $300 for 20 litres of water? no, we would probably have protests and bring the government down for that kind of abuse.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8144415.stm

i recently listened to a very old radio show with stuart mclean and peter gzowski, dated from 1986. They were talking about what they could get for a dollar at that time. Stuart mclean said that Toronto city water costs 5 cents for 25 gallons (enough to fill a phone booth if you still know what those are). The men then laughed about the fact that we pay a mere nickle for that large amount of water and then the city happily takes back the water we have dirtied, to clean it, process it, and purify it many times over. all for 5 cents for 25 gallons.

http://archives.cbc.ca/arts_entertainment/media/clips/12587/

(it is a pretty funny program actually - have a listen if you want to listen to old fashioned radio)

so, the wealthiest of the wealthy (yes, that includes all of us) pay the least amount for a life sustaining necessity, while the poorest of the poor pay prices that put gold to shame.

injustice at its best.

house hunting

i do not like looking for new places to live. likely because i often seem to make bad decisions and live in crappy places. my first year in calgary was a testament to that! my first "room" was in the basement of a house that i ended up sharing with a sketchy guy - i ended up calling the police because he was beating up his girlfriend on the front street. and the mice were eating my food, hearing the trap snap under my bed at night didn't help with sleeping either...

and then there was living with 5 chinese phd students in a house that has always had medical students living in it. cheap rent, check. bovine solution under the bathroom sink, check. a roommate with possible tb, check. 

i thought i had learned my lessons. when looking at apartments last december here in vancouver, i thought i was seeing nice places. the managers of one apartment that i really liked required my credit card number and bank account number on the application form. mmm, i think not.  i really liked my current place because of the neighbourhood and the "character" of the house. i should have caught on when the landlord starting telling me about his personal life during the viewing. i think the gas fireplace and in-suite washer and dryer were enticing me.

i am moving again. partly because i can't stand my apartment anymore. it is too dark and the landlord likes to throw many a dinner party. high heels on the hardwood floors sound like thunder.  they also sold the house and the new owners take possession at the end of the month. i wonder if they know the lady of the house just took the entire fireplace mantle with her. and thanks to the movers, i found out why the light on the mantle never worked. a screw had been drilled right through the cord. i think i have had enough mayhem with cords starting things on fire in my life...

so i went apartment hunting today. what was most interesting was seeing a part of strangers lives. one place was inhabited by a fairly messy and dirty guy. but he evidently snowboarded, biked, surfed, is a dj complete with 2 tables, and just finished a masters. mmm, like to meet him:-)

i'd like the meet the next guy more - this guy had a nice little bachelor, good taste in furniture, was tidy and clean, surfed, biked, read lots of books, AND tastefully decorated his apartment with skateboard decks mounted on the walls. he had apparently met tony hawk as evidenced by the signed deck. now, i really wanted to meet this guy!!

i was appalled by one girl. landlords have to give 48 hours notice that they are showing apartments. all these tenants know that their apartment is being shown to multiple strangers. the landlord opened the door, and literally the first thing i had to step over was a bright turquoise bra. next to the front door. dirty underwear was strewn a few steps further. granted it was a bachelor and so not very big, but seriously, leaving your underwear next to the front door?

the other apartment in that building, right next door to the dirty bachelor girl, is the apartment i am thinking of getting. it is a big one bedroom, hardwood floors, lots of south facing windows in the living room, a balcony, decent sized kitchen. the disadvantage is that i will have to carry my bike up 2-3 flights of stairs and keep it in the apartment. and the bedroom wall is shared with the next apartments bedroom wall. what if some "very active" person moves in there? i might need permanent ear plugs!

however, here is the clincher. the landlord starting telling me about his bad day because he had just put his 17 year old cat to sleep 2 hours before and he was having a rough time of it. he kept talking about the cat. that is not bad in and of itself, but my current landlord also told me sob stories while showing me the apartment and it has kind of sucked living here. do i take it as a bad omen that landlords tell me sob stories while showing me apartments? or do i just exude such caring and compassion that they feel compelled to tell me?
and here is another dilemma. this apartment is 800 metres from kitsilano beach and about 4 km from jericho beach. (i am currently about 800 metres from jericho). i like jericho beach better than kits beach... (i know, cry myself a river right)

so, do i consider taking this bright, sunny, roomy apartment with the sad landlord or do i hold out and hope something better comes along in the next 2 weeks?

i see 2 more places tomorrow... it will then be decision time...

any advice? are sad landlords a bad omen or do i go by how the place looks?

addendum:  the last place i saw is the one i got. a one bedroom with hardwood floors two blocks from kits beach with lots of big windows to let the sunshine in!  and a bike room, so no carrying my bike up 3 flights of stairs! yeah!

a day in the life of vancouver

here are a few photos of life in vancouver...

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=120535&id=528770294&l=fc4c7655fb

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=123292&id=528770294&l=f2e9aff3eb

these are the people in your neighbourhood...

i really like where i live. while it is "trendy" and expensive, i am quite happy with my choice to live in kitsilano.

the obvious aside, that i live next to the ocean in an old neighbourhood with big, old trees, i enjoy the fact that families go out for walks together, that i found a willow tree next to the ocean, that people walk to the grocery store, that the buses will be full on a friday night, that independent coffee shops and bookstores outnumber the chain stores, people take a bike ride for enjoyment, that i have the salty smell of sea in my nose...

but two of my favourite things are this: on the corner of 4th and macdonald, someone very mysterious puts out free things every day. a few weeks ago there was an entertainment unit complete with knick knacks. last week, there was a collection of comforters and pillows, over the weekend, a wedding dress hung on the fence with a collection of sneakers lined up underneath, and today, a kitchen sink. and people take them, because the stuff is always gone at the end of the day. 

i have been taking photos of them with my phone and if i can ever figure out how to get them off my phone and on a computer, i will.

but this early spring evening, a woman working in the garden made my day. i was walking along laden with grocery bags, and an old woman starts talking to me 

"wait!! wait! i need to tell you something!" 
she literally comes running from her garden to her front gate and starts looking at my grocery bags. i thought i had food falling out of them or something.

and here is what she tells me (in her exact words)

"so, someone asked, 
'where do moose come from?' 
and the other person said from moosejaw! 
and then the person said 'where do cows come from?' 
why from cowgary of course!"
(interjection of 'oh, now that one's funny isn't it)
but listen to this - a foreigner in australia asked one of those native folks 
'what are those things jumping around?'
and since the native person, you know, they didn't speak any english or anything, i mean why should they, said
'kangaroo - i don't know' (pregnant pause after this)
isn't that funny! kangaroo means i don't know in that native tongue!!
what is that native tongue anyway? i think in new zealand it is maori, is that right? well, gee i just don't know what it is in australia.
but isn't that cute. it is so great to tell children!! 

(at this point, i thought she meant that i was the child and she was telling me the joke)

and she continues " so go, tell a child that. isn't it precious! oh, they just love it! kangaroo - i don't know" i've read it in at least 4 different places, that kangaroo means that. oohh, children just love it...

i thanked the woman profusely and promised to tell children her joke. 
and i walked away smiling..

little alida

i still kind of feel sorry for little alida - that she is stuck with my weird name. considering few people in canada being able to say it properly, never mind spell it, i don't know what the future holds for this little girl in kenya! at least it kind of complies with swahili language in that every letter in the name is actually pronounced. that should make it easier!

i was able to visit alidajoy and her family in november. the home is filled with girls and loving parents - bless her father, he has to put up with alot of estrogen!

she takes awhile to warm up to strangers...

... but is pretty darn cute when she starts smiling :-)

the house is packed with girls - 3 sisters, a cousin, mom
the girls referred to me as mzungu alida (white alida)
and her as mkenya alida (kenyan alida)

the big, happy family.

message in minneapolis

www.curlygirldesign.com

I found this card in a gift shop in the Minneapolis airport on my way back to East Africa for vacation. It seems to have been made for me.
Although I am still trying to figure out why I am back in Canada when I would much rather be somewhere else.
I hope to eventually figure it out, or at least become content with not knowing why...

i love my leatherman

i have found more uses for my leatherman knife. in addition to pruning trees and giving myself pedicures with it, i spent the weekend reupholstering an old chair. i used several parts of the knife to finish the job. it was just missing a sewing needle. maybe i should suggest it....

so here is my first attempt at upholstery...



before after

the chair was evidently old, as the stuffing is made from hay and cotton



i decided to keep this is as the stuffing, basically because i have no idea how to make new stuffing. i made patterns from the old pieces, cut some new ones, stapled them on with my new heavy duty stapler (after shooting staples all over the basement with the old, broken stapler), and then hand stitched the backing on. hopefully i will sit on it once in awhile! although every time i do, i feel like i should start cross stitching or something! kind of fun to actually do something productive with my time!

how to avoid getting robbed in nairobbery

i have been building up ample experience in avoiding getting robbed. i have had people attempt to rob me at least 7 times here in kenya, and not once have they succeeded. i learned alot of tricks during my time in eastern europe as they are total experts in pickpocketing and bag stealing. little did the street teams of eldoret and nairobi know that i am already on to them...

so i will share how not to get robbed in nairobbery...

do not walk around with your backpack on your back, admiring the skyline of nairobi (or the garbage dumps of eldoret), blissfully thinking about the fact that you are visiting or living in africa. wearing your "back"pack on your back is an invitation to have it sliced open with a razor blade and all the contents emptied while you are composing the next blog entry in your head. you must sling the bag on your side or even wear it on the front. i did that in eldoret and looked pretty stupid but i kept all my money and my phone.

do not be a polite canadian (or "westerner") and apologize when someone bumps into you on the street. you have just apologized to the person who was trying to rob you. i learned this trick in budapest. people "bump" you and your bag and while you are catching your balance they have emptied your bag. this happened to me 6 times on the streets of eldoret. they usually work in teams. one guy bumped my "back"pack (which was on my hip) on a fairly empty street. i whipped around to check the source and a guy quickly walked by holding a briefcase on his chest. i don't know about you, but generally businessmen do not hold their briefcase across their chest. i checked my bag, it was intact and started walking again. bumped again! and a second guy with a briefcase rapidly walking by. a little suspicious... this time, he had unzipped the outer pocket and had evidently gotten his hand in my bag, but all he found was an umbrella and a piece of paper. if they are not concealing their hands with a briefcase, they often have one arm out of the sleeve of their jacket and quickly conceal whatever they have stolen under their jacket when they are done. a rather scruffy looking guy in eldoret tried that on me. "bumped" me, then was surprised to see me whip around to look at him. he tried to non-chalantly walk across the street while i eyed him. he looked a little embarrassed to be caught by the white girl.

do not pack your wallet in an outside pocket of your bag or have it somewhere easily accessible. stick it deep down or sandwich it between other things. it is harder to get at if they are slicing the side of your bag.

do not wear those neck pouches that all the travel stores sell. one, they look dumb. even if they are under your shirt. the big bulky rectangle between your boobs is not exactly incognito. having a strap around your neck is also a little stupid. cause they can choke you with it, or as they are slicing the string, accidentally slice your neck. and i don't think mec or rei offers medical insurance with those pouches.

don't walk around with your lonely planet book out or unfold maps while walking down a street. is that explanation enough? if you need directions, ask one of the guards outside of a bank.

don't shout to your friend that you are going to run to the barclays atm. also watch who is around you as you walk up, keep your peripheral view open while withdrawing money, and don't help people who claim that their card "doesn't seem to be working." Scan the area as you walk away, and walk with purpose. Seems excessive, but do you want to part with the $150 you just took out?

do not allow the boys or men selling plastic bags on the street or near a market to distract you with conversation or even try to sell you a bag. if you want a bag, go and purposely pick someone out and have your 10 shillings ready. one guy waved a plastic bag in my face with one hand while he thought he was stealthily taking the phone out of my pocket with the other. i felt him take it and whipped around and shouted that he give it back. i was fortunate that it was not busy and the street wasn't crowded. he didn't have a chance to pass it off to another bag boy friend. he was so startled by the finger in his face and the crazy white chick demanding her phone back that he actually gave it back!

don't have your phone in a jacket pocket. i learned the hard way. keep it in your bag.

be aware on matatus. if people start changing seats in the middle of the ride and cause "commotions" inside the vehicle, they are busy stealing your phone. last week a guy with an "injured" knee asked my friend to move. when she refused he magically got in the very back with his "injured" knee. he and his friend started switching seats beside me before we even left. his friend had a big piece of posterboard in a plastic bag and tried to act like it was a rare art print that could not be bent. he was trying to hold it between me and my bag so that he could insert his hand into my bag while i politely allowed him to protect his art. unfortunately for him, i didn't care what was in his big bag and shoved it back onto his lap. they were kicked off the matatu within about a minute and everyone checked that they had their phones.

the other matatu tricks are your neighbour pretending to try to access his seat belt or offering to help you find yours. NO ONE in nairobi wears their seatbelt in a matatu or even tries to find it. an expat learned that last week but lost $150 out of his pocket in the process.
try not to open your bag if you are sitting next to an open window, especially in the back seats. a guy stole my friends phone right out her bag and took off running. she was stuck in the back of the matatu and helplessly watched him run off with her phone.

don't yell "thief" at someone unless you are willing to watch them get beaten to death in front of you by mob justice. i have witnessed it once and it was traumatizing enough that i never want to see it again. (i was not the once who yelled thief thank God)

and that, my friends, is some sage advice on how not to get robbed in nairobbery.

sound of goodbye

sometimes the sound of goodbye is louder than any drum beat

armin van buuren

i have been back in canada for a few weeks now, adjusting to a place that is seemingly the same, yet just a little different than when i left it over a year ago. and i look seemingly the same, yet am a whole lot different.

my last couple of weeks in kenya were incredibly difficult. having to leave a place that i had so grown to love more deeply than i had realized. how to say goodbye, what to say, what not to say. but more often than not, words were not necessary. more often than not, i was sure the sound of my heart breaking would deafen all those around me. more often than not, the sound of goodbye between friends was deafening.

i learned a profound lesson in my most vulnerable moments. a year or two ago, i thought i was off to africa to help people. i had grandiose visions of cuddling babies, holding sick people as they died, of totally changing the small patch of africa which i was going to. i had no idea what was coming to me.

after a year of living in kenya, most of that time in a village, i felt as though i hadn't "done" much of anything. i hadn't started fantastic programs, designed projects, or even made a "sidebar" in the newspaper. i had cuddled only a few babies and held no one as they died. how did i justify my presence? what was i doing there? what was my purpose? all i seemed to do was walk around in villages and drink alot of really sweet tea.

although devastating, my last two weeks seemed to be the most profound. or maybe i was finally paying attention to the reason why i was in kenya. perhaps, i figured out, it was not for me to help kenyans, but for kenyans to help me. to help me shed my arrogant shell that i had all the answers, all the comfort, all the care and compassion that everyone needed.

my first experience of this came via my sewing machine. since i had very little time to try to dispose of my things, i decided to donate my sewing machine to a women's group in nairobi that has been very successful in training women to sew high quality products. i had been to the shop several times and was impressed with the work. so i arranged with the manager to bring by my machine one day.

i was given the opportunity to share with the women why i was donating my machine. first, they sang as i walked in the room! i was still in my week of "dehydration crying" and the moment i started speaking, i started crying. i am not even sure what i said through my bumbling. but the women all gathered around me and put their hands on my back. they took turns praying for me; i felt a soft hand rubbing my shoulders the whole time, and i slowly calmed. i felt relaxed and comforted. i felt cared for. the women i thought i was helping with a sewing machine, were helping me with deep care, concern, and prayers. i had not felt so ministered to in all my time in kenya.

my most humble and beautiful moment was in my village. i had one day to pack everything and say goodbye. only a few people knew i was leaving, none knew why. i had finished packing the things in my house and walked over to the hospital to bid farewell to the staff. i met a gentleman from the village who is well known and loved. he is "living positively", meaning he is HIV+ but open and free, doing his best to live a healthy life with a deadly virus. he has lost his wife to AIDs, and struggles to keep his children in school. in spite of all his challenges, which are more than i can imagine, he is always cheerful, loving, and although he is nearly skeletal, he has one of the strongest, hand-crushing handshakes i have ever experienced.

when he saw me, he heartily greeted me with the familiar kenyan phrase of "umepotea kwa siku mingi!! (you have been "lost" for so many days!). i greeted him back and said in swahili, "yes, and i will be "lost" for so many more days." and i could say no more. i started crying. my face contorted as i tried not to cry in front of him, but the hot tears came faster than i could control. before i could do anything more, he took me into his skinny arms and held me as i wept. i sobbed on his bony shoulder while he comforted me, assuring me that it would all be okay and that God would bless me where ever i was.

the tables turned, my heart flipped on it's head. my time in kenya ended not with me comforting kenyans, but with kenyans comforting me. i was sure i would comfort those with AIDs, but it was those with AIDs comforting me. the only audible sounds were my muffled crying and their soothing words.

the sound of goodbye. deafening.

cadence

while staying in nairobi over the summer, i joined a bike club and would go riding weekly with a diverse group of people, led by kinjah - a kenyan rider/mechanic. he has started a cycling club, safari simbaz, in an effort to promote cycling in kenya, especially among the youth. he trains young boys in cycling and bicycle maintenance (thereby keeping them out of trouble as well). but it is incredibly difficult to get any decent bikes or bike parts in kenya. he normally buys used stuff that arrives in containers from europe, japan, and north america.

I am looking for a way to support him with parts, accessories (and possibly bikes), used or new, so that he can continue with this work and not go broke buying our used stuff!

i am going to put out a call for any bike enthusiasts who have quality bike parts, accesories, or connections to those who do, who want to donate them to a kenyan bike club.

leave a note or email me if you have anything or are interested in supporting cycling in kenya!

asante sana

links to kinjah's riding... (rides the cape epic in south africa every year)
http://cyclingnews.com/mtbphotos.php?id=/photos/2008/mar08/capeepic08/capeepic080/CE_Prologue_KS138
http://bike-zone.com/mtbphotos.php?id=/photos/2007/mar07/capeepic07/capeepic075/ce04297

less like scars

It's been a hard year.
But I'm climbing out of the rubble.
These lessons are hard.
Healing changes are subtle.
But every day it's...
Less like tearing more like building.
Less like captive more like willing.
Less like breakdown more like surrender.
Less like haunting more like remember.
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars and more like character.
Less like a prison more like my room.
Less like a casket more like a womb.
Less like dying more like transcending.
Less like fear, less like an ending...
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
Just a little while ago.
I couldn't feel the power or the hope.
I couldn't cope, I couldn't feel a thing.
Just a little while back.
I was desperate, broken, laid out.
Hoping you would come.
And I need you.
And I want you here.
And I feel you...
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt.
look less like scars.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
And more like character...
(lyrics by sara groves)

i have had some pretty tough times in my year here in kenya. i have had babies die in my arms after trying to resuscitate them for 5 hours. i watched a mother die of Aids and leave behind 4 children under the age of 11. i witnessed a man being beaten to death for petty theft. i coped my way through post-election violence and listened to horrific stories of torture and murder.

somehow, i have made it. but a recent event in my life has completely devastated me.

last week i was suddenly terminated from my position. i am not able to share the details with you but it was shocking, hurtful, confusing and devastating.

as the lyrics above say, "i am digging my way out of the rubble"

i am heading to tanzania at the end of this week for some R&R, to visit with a couple of friends, contemplate on the beach. i will be returning to canada sometime at the end of september. i don't know my exact plans from there. i will be seeking some re-entry counseling so that the transition goes as smoothly as it possibly can. from there, i don't know.

i don't know what else to say. i don't know what to pray. this morning in church we sang a song about casting our cares on God and allowing the Holy Spirit to come and fill us up. i started crying. i pray i can do both of those things.

i hope that i learn from this experience and grow into a better person that can continue serving God and people in whatever capacity he has planned for me.

Thank you in advance for your thoughts and prayers in this extremely difficult time.

ironic

there are so many things i wish i could take photos of or describe vividly to you that make me pause. some are funny, some are tragic, all are ironic.

it is ironic when you see 3 traditional maasai women each wearing their 25-30 necklaces, earlobes drooping to their shoulders, buying their beads to make their distinctive jewelery from indians in a shop in nairobi that is so obviously dangerous that all the windows are barred and a security guard has to let you in the door.

it is ironic to look for "african" cloth in kampala, uganda only to find that the black africans are selling cheap polyester made in china and the indian africans are selling the "typical" african hand-dyed cloth made by black africans from a village.

it is ironic to see a maasai man sitting on an eldoret shopping street selling his "natural herbs" that cure all illnesses, but he is sitting on a wooden box drinking a coke and text messaging his buddies.

it is ironic that in canada, "punk rock" kids think they are ultra cool for stretching out their earlobes with plugs, while i walk behind an elderly man of 80ish whose earlobes are so stretched he has actually flipped them over the top of his ear to keep them from swaying too and fro.

it is ironic that to get a decent bike here, i had to buy it from a kenyan guy
who buys them from an indian guy who buys them from canadians, americans and europeans, who think they are no longer good enough to ride
and they are shipped to kenya to be bought back by canadians, americans and europeans
who are desperate for a bike good enough to ride in kenya.

it is ironic that the coffee mugs i bought for my friend at a local supermarket are actually Ikea mugs that were made in China.

it is ironic that although there are scores of countries to report on in africa, the national newspaper carries at least a full page on barack obama and the american election every day. i know more about the current american campaign than i ever knew about a canadian one, and i am not currently living in either of those countries.

it is ironic that in a culture that values children so much, people so easily ignore the 7 year old drug addict begging for money to buy food and fuel his glue addiction.

old skool

you know you are old when you go back to school and your brain actually hurts.

i have been going to school for the past 2 weeks and have 2 more to go. i am taking a class called "training of facilitators" for people working in community based health care. it is jam packed with information and group work (we all know how fun that can be) and i am generally pretty tired by the end of the day. let me sum up what a typical day at school looks like. (i will combine details from different days for brevity).

I am staying with my friend Amanda in her townhouse not far from the training centre. I set my alarm for 6:30 so that i can get up and turn on the water heater for the bath. the heaters here are turned on manually so as to save money on gas. i crawl back into bed for another 30 minutes hoping for some good last minute dreams. after some cornflakes, i brew some coffee and put it in my spill proof starbucks coffee mug, throw it in my backpack, jump on my bike and start praying that i don't get killed. i have to fight my way through a throng of matatus all lining up outside the path from kibera (the slum) as thousands of people are heading to work. i head to the freeway and hope i don't make any permanent pitstops at the funeral home i pass each day. i whizz through the traffic circle and hope the cars think of me as one of them. as i pass the local airport a small private airplane takes off for its safari in maasai mara. i turn into the driveway of the training centre (African Medical and Research Foundation) oddly noting that on my right, not far away is an elementary school, straight ahead is a prison, and to my left is my school. on one particular fine morning they had the prisoners in their black and white striped outfits pruning the trees. one nearly fell out of the tree when he whipped around to loudly greet me. just another day in nairobi when you're "givin high fives" to the prisoners on the way to work...

i enter the classroom and start greeting in as many mother tongue languages i can remember. one of my classmates from kartoum, sudan, has taught everyone how to say good morning in arabic. when he sweeps in the room he shouts "saba alkier!" and you hear 25 people shout back "saba alnoor!" very enthusiastically. my classmates are from all over east africa, including kenya, sudan, and somalia. there are doctors, nurses, pharmacists, and clinical officers. they work for the red cross, cdc, goal, world vision among others. the experiences and stories are rich and varied.

it was decided as a group that every day be opened with prayer. this is such a change from a north american meeting. in what "secular" place would a meeting start with prayer? the interesting thing is, is that the class is not all protestant christians. there are muslims, christians, catholics (my neighbour is a nun), and total non-believers. we have prayed in english and arabic, to Jesus and to Allah. it is always an interesting start to the day.

we usually begin with a short lecture followed by group work. i usually start heated discussions in my group and sometimes we end up talking much more about other topics than our assignment (this should come as no surprise to people who know me). yet, we always seem to come up with some of the most comprehensive presentations. one of my group members likes to say that a group that bonds produces good work. so i guess we are bonding.

tea time and lunch break continue to be living classrooms for me. i learn more cultural lessons over a steaming cup or a plate of food than in the classroom. i have learned about "alternate uses" for coca cola and lemon juice, how the prostitutes in nairobi operate, that a woman in somalia garners a lot of respect and will rarely be shot in conflict, what a guy is really saying to me when he says "i love you so much, let's talk more" (i can be so naive) and so many other interesting things that are too numerous to list.

people are also fascinated with canada and often ask me what it would be like to study there, if people would stare at them on the street, if there are africans there, how cold it is... there is rarely a dull conversation. i get alot of comments that "you talk alot. but please don't stop. it's so interesting."

the day ends with me collecting all the evaluation forms and delegating the task to one of my co-students as I was elected to be the "evaluation form coordinator." a title i can put on my resume perhaps...

i retrieve my bike from behind the guards' building and ride beside my walking classmates. they express shock that i am riding a bicycle as opposed to a motorbike or car and think i am a bit crazy for riding in the same lanes as cars, but they heartily send me off with well wishes for safety.

i pass the herds of indingenous cows that are being herded by little maasai women or young men in leather jackets. no one, including myself, thinks it is odd to see 50 cows walking down a freeway in the middle of nairobi. i push myself up the hill desperately trying to stay ahead of the old man on a one speed bicycle who seems to have an effortless cadence. once in my friends large estate i ride by the drunk car minders who reach out their hands to give me five. i slap a few of their hands, figuring it is better to keep the throng of young, drunk men on my good side. but i change my pattern of coming and going everyday so as to avoid someone easily following me. sometimes i say a small prayer as i go by the boys and men who sniff glue and literally live in the garbage pile, eating our leftovers and finding treasures in our trash.

when i glide up to my friends front gate, i get out my giant key ring and start sorting out which key opens what lock. i undo the front gate and lock it from the inside. then i go through her laundry room, unlock another door where i store my bike. i unlock the two front doors and have to be sure to lock them again behind me (i NEVER locked my door in calgary). i dump my bag by the door, turn on the computer and check email and facebook. i watch a lame movie with my friend and crawl back into bed by 10. ready for another day of prisoner greeting, cultural learning, laughing over tea, and oh yeah, a little school too...