i love hearing about normal things. i love hearing about how you carved 6 pumpkins for halloween. i love hearing about the cute guy you saw at safeway. i love hearing about the crafts you made with your kids, and the birthday cake for your church function. i love hearing about snow, and how many times you had to shovel it. i love hearing about trips to the shopping mall, or the bad haircut you just got.
and since i love hearing about your normal stuff, i will tell you about my normal stuff. i might live on a different continent than most of the readers, and granted a few details of my life are different, but i still do normal stuff.
i still press my snooze button at least 4 times before i get out of bed. i still make coffee in my french press for breakfast. i eat muesli or oatmeal for breakfast. i take a "shower" in the morning, with the only difference being that i have to heat my water with a coil and my shower head is my hand and a bowl.
i did laundry this morning. only this time, it took 2 hours to wash my underpants, one pair of jeans, two pairs of pajamas, a sheet and a towel. i hung them outside to dry before going to work.
i zap my lunch in a microwave and eat mr. noodles (ramen) because i am too lazy to cook. i check facebook after work to see what my friends are up to around the world. then i ironed all my clothes because i am scared of mango bugs laying their eggs in my clothes. i listened to emmylou harris while ironing.
when i am bored and/or need to procrastinate on the long list of things i have to do, i pop a dvd into my computer and watch ugly betty or scrubs. the nice thing is there are no commercials!
i bought some flashing christmas lights and strung them around my living room window. i bop around the house to boney m's version of "feliz navidad." i am too cheap to buy an ugly plastic tree, but i have an angel ornament made out of a piece of beer can (the irony!) and an ornament a friend sent me from canada. on my fireplace mantles are two "racing grannies" dressed up like myself and a friend. when i feel homesick, i wind them up and watch them hobble across the mantle with their walkers.
i don't have to shovel snow or mow the lawn for that matter. i have several built in lawnmowers and fertilizers. my neighbours sheep come over and do the job for me. my grass is nice and short and i haven't busted a sweat for it. when i start a garden i will have to put a fence around it to keep them out. but that is a small sacrifice for free lawn moving.
i live in a 3 bedroom house and i don't like cleaning it! nothing new there!! sometimes i don't have running water, but i have rain water outside that does the trick.
i have a sewing machine, and if i ever get around to it, i want to start quilting again.
i still have the notion that i should check my messages every time i walk in the front door even though i don't have a landline. i have finally figured out most of my cell phone although i still jump a mile when it vibrates.
i do normal stuff. i procrastinate, i go for walks, i go to supermarkets and shopping malls. i look at cute boys (well, once in awhile) and wonder if they look back. i do normal stuff. i will tell you my normal stuff if you tell me yours.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
vehicular guardian angels
over the past year some good friends and colleagues have given me "guardian angel" pins and momentos, reminding me that i am being watched over. us dutch reformed people don't talk about guardian angels much, so i used to think of them more as a nice symbolic gesture.
i have become quite convinced as of late, that there really are guardian angels, and that i personally employ an entire fleet of them. i like to think of them as my vehicular guardian angels. in the past i have engaged myself in some activities that i thought were "risky" such as paragliding lessons, zip-lining in costa rica, and bombing down the sides of mountains on mountain bikes. i now think these activities are fairly tame compared to stepping foot on a road here in kenya.
i look back in astonishment and a bit of laughter at the "rides" i have experienced...
*hitched a ride in the back of a pickup, had to sit on bags of cement and wedge my legs between metal gates. i got a free ride for about 500 metres and several bloody scratches on my legs.
*hitched a ride in the back of a pickup into town. this time i got to sit all the way on the floor. good thing too, because the driver sped with a lead foot all the way to town.
*hitched a ride in the cab of a dump truck driving past my village. i sat between three men who all just sat and grinned at me. when i looked over at the steering wheel i noticed that in the place where the turn signal should be, uncoated wires were sticking out of the steering column. i grinned back and prayed the driver would not electrocute himself.
*rode on the trailer of my kenyan brothers tractor to the highway. i was a new colour on arrival as i was completely covered in red dust.
*caught a ride on the back of a pickup, but as it was a school bus with 30 children standing in the back, myself and the school bus attendant had to stand on the bumper and hang onto an overhead bar while flying through the countryside. i prayed to be knocked unconcious right away so i wouldn't feel the pain when i fell!
*hired a cab from town to the village although the car looked a little worse for wear. the driver assured me it ran well. while driving on the dirt road home, the keys actually fell out of the ignition while the car was moving! that was a new one. the car stalled twice, the driver had to get out and fiddle around with unknown car parts to get it started again.
*the vehicle for the community program is an 1986 isuzu trooper. it still runs... kind of. to get it out of the garage, i usually have to pop the hood and jiggle the battery connections. we used to have to turn it off to switch into first gear and reverse. while it was running we only had second and fourth gears. that part is now fixed, but i still have to jiggle the battery wires.
*the matatu ride i described when i first arrived was tame and safe by comparison to taking matatus up-country. due to lax (no) enforcement of laws, i am usually happy if the doors close. one conductor put so many people on that people's bums blocked the sliding door from shutting. last weekend, the conductor stuffed 25 people into a matatu. for reference, a matatu is roughly the size of large mini-van. i sternly asked him if he was wanting to be in the next days newspaper under the headline "25 people die in matatu crash." he laughed but i was not amused.
overall, i am so fortunate and grateful that i am still in one piece and have not suffered any major harm. i did recently enroll in the "flying doctors" service however! i am entitled to one flight evacuation per year!
january will bring motorcycle lessons so that i can get my kenyan license. i look forward to the ability to control my own mode of transportation! i am also getting a decent mountain bike that i hope will serve me well in this back country terrain. but i will try not to test the fleet of angels any further than necessary:-) they are already working overtime!
i have become quite convinced as of late, that there really are guardian angels, and that i personally employ an entire fleet of them. i like to think of them as my vehicular guardian angels. in the past i have engaged myself in some activities that i thought were "risky" such as paragliding lessons, zip-lining in costa rica, and bombing down the sides of mountains on mountain bikes. i now think these activities are fairly tame compared to stepping foot on a road here in kenya.
i look back in astonishment and a bit of laughter at the "rides" i have experienced...
*hitched a ride in the back of a pickup, had to sit on bags of cement and wedge my legs between metal gates. i got a free ride for about 500 metres and several bloody scratches on my legs.
*hitched a ride in the back of a pickup into town. this time i got to sit all the way on the floor. good thing too, because the driver sped with a lead foot all the way to town.
*hitched a ride in the cab of a dump truck driving past my village. i sat between three men who all just sat and grinned at me. when i looked over at the steering wheel i noticed that in the place where the turn signal should be, uncoated wires were sticking out of the steering column. i grinned back and prayed the driver would not electrocute himself.
*rode on the trailer of my kenyan brothers tractor to the highway. i was a new colour on arrival as i was completely covered in red dust.
*caught a ride on the back of a pickup, but as it was a school bus with 30 children standing in the back, myself and the school bus attendant had to stand on the bumper and hang onto an overhead bar while flying through the countryside. i prayed to be knocked unconcious right away so i wouldn't feel the pain when i fell!
*hired a cab from town to the village although the car looked a little worse for wear. the driver assured me it ran well. while driving on the dirt road home, the keys actually fell out of the ignition while the car was moving! that was a new one. the car stalled twice, the driver had to get out and fiddle around with unknown car parts to get it started again.
*the vehicle for the community program is an 1986 isuzu trooper. it still runs... kind of. to get it out of the garage, i usually have to pop the hood and jiggle the battery connections. we used to have to turn it off to switch into first gear and reverse. while it was running we only had second and fourth gears. that part is now fixed, but i still have to jiggle the battery wires.
*the matatu ride i described when i first arrived was tame and safe by comparison to taking matatus up-country. due to lax (no) enforcement of laws, i am usually happy if the doors close. one conductor put so many people on that people's bums blocked the sliding door from shutting. last weekend, the conductor stuffed 25 people into a matatu. for reference, a matatu is roughly the size of large mini-van. i sternly asked him if he was wanting to be in the next days newspaper under the headline "25 people die in matatu crash." he laughed but i was not amused.
overall, i am so fortunate and grateful that i am still in one piece and have not suffered any major harm. i did recently enroll in the "flying doctors" service however! i am entitled to one flight evacuation per year!
january will bring motorcycle lessons so that i can get my kenyan license. i look forward to the ability to control my own mode of transportation! i am also getting a decent mountain bike that i hope will serve me well in this back country terrain. but i will try not to test the fleet of angels any further than necessary:-) they are already working overtime!
Saturday, December 15, 2007
glue boys & child soldiers
Ishmael Beah is a former child solider from Sierra Leone. He wrote a powerful book called "a long way gone: memoirs of a boy soldier" which I bought and read in one day this past summer. Amazing and disturbing book. I recommend it.
It has helped me to have more empathy for all the glue sniffing boys that roam the streets of any city here in Kenya. They are boys, who through no fault of their own, have become drug addicts as early as age five. They steal, harass, and sing songs off-pitch when they are high - but they are boys, they are someone's son, they are desperate, they are hungry and they are alone. I don't know how they got to where they are, but most 7 year olds don't go looking to do drugs, or to become soldiers.
I just found out from a friend's facebook wall that Ishmael Beah will speaking at one of my alma mater's (Calvin College) in January during the "January Series". January 11, 2008 to be specific. If you live in Grand Rapids or anywhere near it (to me "near" is about a 5 hour driving distance), I highly recommend you go see this guy speak. It is free, but I imagine you will have to line up for this one!
So, if you can, I highly recommend going to see Ishmael speak. I doubt you would regret it.
http://www.calvin.edu/january/2008/
It has helped me to have more empathy for all the glue sniffing boys that roam the streets of any city here in Kenya. They are boys, who through no fault of their own, have become drug addicts as early as age five. They steal, harass, and sing songs off-pitch when they are high - but they are boys, they are someone's son, they are desperate, they are hungry and they are alone. I don't know how they got to where they are, but most 7 year olds don't go looking to do drugs, or to become soldiers.
I just found out from a friend's facebook wall that Ishmael Beah will speaking at one of my alma mater's (Calvin College) in January during the "January Series". January 11, 2008 to be specific. If you live in Grand Rapids or anywhere near it (to me "near" is about a 5 hour driving distance), I highly recommend you go see this guy speak. It is free, but I imagine you will have to line up for this one!
So, if you can, I highly recommend going to see Ishmael speak. I doubt you would regret it.
http://www.calvin.edu/january/2008/
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
heart in a headlock
i've been addicted to imogen heap lately - listening to her music again and again. the title track from one of her albums is "heart in a headlock" and while jogging down a dusty dirt road near my house, i realized this a perfect diagnosis for my internal chest pain.
many days, as i meet people in the village and listen to their stories, a tight, suffocating sensation develops in my chest. a single mother with 4 children, ostracized from the family, without food, water, firewood, or even a toilet, sits coughing on the ground describing her desperate living situation. headlock tightens. but i learn her name is grace, and then she smiles and laughs at a joke. the headlock loosens.
a grandmother, close to 75 years old, finds herself raising 10 grandchildren. some are as young as 2 years old. all of her children have died. she should be resting, her children caring for her. but she has no choice, she must now clothe and feed hungry mouths. headlock tightens. she shows me around her farm full of corn, bananas, passion fruit, and maize. she is able to earn enough money to send her grandchildren to school. the headlock loosens.
i meet a man named Joseph at the World AIDS day planning meeting. he tells me that less than five years ago he laid in a hospital bed weighing 23kg (just over 50 lbs) with a CD4 count of 7 (normal is in the thousands). he was nearly dead. headlock tightens. he was started on ARV's, now weighs 50kg and has a CD4 count of 700. he became a community health educator and started his own beadwork business that now employs 10 other people, all of whom are HIV+. the headlock loosens.
while waiting for a friend downtown one day, i witness an incredible act of violence against another person. headlock tightens, this time near strangulation. i ask my friends to pray. they do and share their own struggles. i feel connected even though we are far away. the headlock loosens.
injustice and violence tighten the grip, grace and love loosen the grip.
my heart is in a headlock.
many days, as i meet people in the village and listen to their stories, a tight, suffocating sensation develops in my chest. a single mother with 4 children, ostracized from the family, without food, water, firewood, or even a toilet, sits coughing on the ground describing her desperate living situation. headlock tightens. but i learn her name is grace, and then she smiles and laughs at a joke. the headlock loosens.
a grandmother, close to 75 years old, finds herself raising 10 grandchildren. some are as young as 2 years old. all of her children have died. she should be resting, her children caring for her. but she has no choice, she must now clothe and feed hungry mouths. headlock tightens. she shows me around her farm full of corn, bananas, passion fruit, and maize. she is able to earn enough money to send her grandchildren to school. the headlock loosens.
i meet a man named Joseph at the World AIDS day planning meeting. he tells me that less than five years ago he laid in a hospital bed weighing 23kg (just over 50 lbs) with a CD4 count of 7 (normal is in the thousands). he was nearly dead. headlock tightens. he was started on ARV's, now weighs 50kg and has a CD4 count of 700. he became a community health educator and started his own beadwork business that now employs 10 other people, all of whom are HIV+. the headlock loosens.
while waiting for a friend downtown one day, i witness an incredible act of violence against another person. headlock tightens, this time near strangulation. i ask my friends to pray. they do and share their own struggles. i feel connected even though we are far away. the headlock loosens.
injustice and violence tighten the grip, grace and love loosen the grip.
my heart is in a headlock.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Crumbs from our table
On the streets of Nairobi, Eldoret, and Plateau, I see people wearing clothes from North America, sometimes even from my hometown. Last week in Nairobi, I saw a woman wearing an Oilers jersey, on an Eldoret Avenue, a “Cassie Campbell Street Hockey Tournament” t-shirt, on a dirt road to the farm a young boy with a Toronto Maple Leaf jacket. Initially, one might think, “that is so cool!” Years ago, during my first trip to Nigeria, I thought it was kind of cool. Now, I have reason to pause when I see this.
The amount of used clothing here first struck me as I went on a search for Kenyan fabric that I might quilt with. My experience in Nigeria had been that there was beautiful Nigerian cloth everywhere – in markets, in stores, on the street corners. Women took great pride in their outfits (and Nigerians even have a reputation here for being well-dressed). I had made the incorrect assumption that this would be the case in Kenya. There is the red Maasai cloth and some bright cottons called kikoy, but even these can be difficult to locate. I started observing what people were wearing, and where they were getting it. And something started to bother me.
We (and I am included) in the “First world” or “Northern Hemisphere” apparently send our leftovers to less developed countries. And it is not always the nicest clothes that get sent. I saw a small child with a “Miami mice” t-shirt on. That has got to be at least two decades ago!
I think of the story of Lazarus the beggar in Luke 16 eating the crumbs off the rich mans table. “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and lived in luxury every day. At his gate was laid a beggar named Lazarus, covered with sores and longing to eat what fell from the rich man’s table.” The rich man ended up in hell while Lazarus was seated in heaven and the rich man was begging for Lazarus to “dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue.” Like it or not, we are the rich man and the majority of the world is Lazarus. What are we called to do? What are we going to do? I, myself, am so supremely challenged by this. Do I wear my linen and give my leftovers? Do we just give away our old and unwanted clothing, the crumbs from our table after the feast?
And it is not just the “developing countries” that get the leftovers. A friend who volunteered in Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina said they had to spend money getting rid of horrendous clothes donated by generous people. He said, and I read in various articles, that people had donated prom dresses and 1980’s one-piece silk jumpsuits. Now, imagine you live in the Superdome with 10,000 other people and you don’t even have a toilet. Are you going to want to put on someone’s old prom dress?
I think about some of the things I have donated in the past, and I am embarrassed that I expected someone else “less fortunate” to wear it. I thought, “well, they should appreciate having clothes at all!” What a poor attitude on my part. Why should someone, anyone, get my old leftovers. Are they not deserving of something new, just like I would buy for myself?
Something else that began to bother me was the lack of a local, indigenous clothing market or industry. Now, I don’t expect people to dress in their traditional clothes from 50 or 100 years ago, but it has been hard to find anything that has been made in Kenya other than school uniforms. I started to ask questions of my host family, friends, and colleagues. I have been told that four textile factories in the Eldoret area alone have closed in recent past, resulting not only in a loss of locally produced clothing, but a major loss in jobs. One colleague commented, “the used clothes are very cheap and so it makes us very happy to get such cheap clothes, but many local factories have closed down now because of it.” National Geographic, in the Africa issue last year, also reported that the influx of used clothing is essentially destroying the African textile industry.
This was reinforced by an article in the Daily Nation, a popular Kenyan newspaper, titled “Man sees hand of God in recall to garment firm.” The story is that William Odumbe had a well paying job in a garment factory which was shut down seven years ago. Unable to find a new job and forced to rely on his brother for help to buy food for his children, Mr. Odumbe said, “that was the time I wanted to look for a rope and hang myself, but something inside me told me to carry on.” Now, seven years later, another firm has decided to re-invest in the factory, update the equipment, and Mr. Odumbe was the first man they hired back. His joy and restored dignity practically leaps off the newsprint.
Now, you may be wondering how your skirt or dress shirt went from your closet to the market stalls in Eldoret? Well, used clothing establishments get an excessive amount of goods donated to them. Rather than throw away the excess, they sell it in large bundles to people here in Africa, and it takes a nice holiday cruise over the Atlantic. Once the bundles arrive, entrepreneurs buy a whole or part of a bundle in bulk and head to the market to make a buck. Some people just buy a stack and sell each piece for about 50 cents. Others are selective and find the best quality pieces to hawk on the street. It is common in downtown Eldoret to see a man wearing 10 suit jackets. At first I thought they were like the homeless in downtown Calgary, wearing every layer of clothing they had ever owned. Then I realized that they were selling the men’s suit jackets but they were their own walking stalls. Some of the clothes are actually still in good condition, others are years old, or have rips and stains (and are then sold much cheaper).
I am not sure that there is a surefire solution to these issues. I am certainly not against donating used clothing to the various outlets that accept them. After all, I grew up on second hand clothing, and have frequently donated my clothes that no longer fit or are flowing out of my closet. So, I don’t want to say, “Stop donating clothes” as there are people who will genuinely get a second or third use out of it. Recycling clothes also keeps them out of landfills.
When we do donate clothes, perhaps we should consider why we are giving it away. Is it filled with stains? Consider cutting it up into rags and use it to dust or clean your toilet. Is it way out of fashion? There are programs in high schools that accept old prom and bridesmaid dresses and re-fashion them into dashing new ball gowns for low income girls. (Cinderella project in Calgary, at least three of my bridesmaid dresses went there) Think about why you want to get rid of something and imagine a person on a downtown street in Calgary or Nairobi wearing it. Are you giving linens or crumbs?
The amount of used clothing here first struck me as I went on a search for Kenyan fabric that I might quilt with. My experience in Nigeria had been that there was beautiful Nigerian cloth everywhere – in markets, in stores, on the street corners. Women took great pride in their outfits (and Nigerians even have a reputation here for being well-dressed). I had made the incorrect assumption that this would be the case in Kenya. There is the red Maasai cloth and some bright cottons called kikoy, but even these can be difficult to locate. I started observing what people were wearing, and where they were getting it. And something started to bother me.
We (and I am included) in the “First world” or “Northern Hemisphere” apparently send our leftovers to less developed countries. And it is not always the nicest clothes that get sent. I saw a small child with a “Miami mice” t-shirt on. That has got to be at least two decades ago!
I think of the story of Lazarus the beggar in Luke 16 eating the crumbs off the rich mans table. “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and lived in luxury every day. At his gate was laid a beggar named Lazarus, covered with sores and longing to eat what fell from the rich man’s table.” The rich man ended up in hell while Lazarus was seated in heaven and the rich man was begging for Lazarus to “dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue.” Like it or not, we are the rich man and the majority of the world is Lazarus. What are we called to do? What are we going to do? I, myself, am so supremely challenged by this. Do I wear my linen and give my leftovers? Do we just give away our old and unwanted clothing, the crumbs from our table after the feast?
And it is not just the “developing countries” that get the leftovers. A friend who volunteered in Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina said they had to spend money getting rid of horrendous clothes donated by generous people. He said, and I read in various articles, that people had donated prom dresses and 1980’s one-piece silk jumpsuits. Now, imagine you live in the Superdome with 10,000 other people and you don’t even have a toilet. Are you going to want to put on someone’s old prom dress?
I think about some of the things I have donated in the past, and I am embarrassed that I expected someone else “less fortunate” to wear it. I thought, “well, they should appreciate having clothes at all!” What a poor attitude on my part. Why should someone, anyone, get my old leftovers. Are they not deserving of something new, just like I would buy for myself?
Something else that began to bother me was the lack of a local, indigenous clothing market or industry. Now, I don’t expect people to dress in their traditional clothes from 50 or 100 years ago, but it has been hard to find anything that has been made in Kenya other than school uniforms. I started to ask questions of my host family, friends, and colleagues. I have been told that four textile factories in the Eldoret area alone have closed in recent past, resulting not only in a loss of locally produced clothing, but a major loss in jobs. One colleague commented, “the used clothes are very cheap and so it makes us very happy to get such cheap clothes, but many local factories have closed down now because of it.” National Geographic, in the Africa issue last year, also reported that the influx of used clothing is essentially destroying the African textile industry.
This was reinforced by an article in the Daily Nation, a popular Kenyan newspaper, titled “Man sees hand of God in recall to garment firm.” The story is that William Odumbe had a well paying job in a garment factory which was shut down seven years ago. Unable to find a new job and forced to rely on his brother for help to buy food for his children, Mr. Odumbe said, “that was the time I wanted to look for a rope and hang myself, but something inside me told me to carry on.” Now, seven years later, another firm has decided to re-invest in the factory, update the equipment, and Mr. Odumbe was the first man they hired back. His joy and restored dignity practically leaps off the newsprint.
Now, you may be wondering how your skirt or dress shirt went from your closet to the market stalls in Eldoret? Well, used clothing establishments get an excessive amount of goods donated to them. Rather than throw away the excess, they sell it in large bundles to people here in Africa, and it takes a nice holiday cruise over the Atlantic. Once the bundles arrive, entrepreneurs buy a whole or part of a bundle in bulk and head to the market to make a buck. Some people just buy a stack and sell each piece for about 50 cents. Others are selective and find the best quality pieces to hawk on the street. It is common in downtown Eldoret to see a man wearing 10 suit jackets. At first I thought they were like the homeless in downtown Calgary, wearing every layer of clothing they had ever owned. Then I realized that they were selling the men’s suit jackets but they were their own walking stalls. Some of the clothes are actually still in good condition, others are years old, or have rips and stains (and are then sold much cheaper).
I am not sure that there is a surefire solution to these issues. I am certainly not against donating used clothing to the various outlets that accept them. After all, I grew up on second hand clothing, and have frequently donated my clothes that no longer fit or are flowing out of my closet. So, I don’t want to say, “Stop donating clothes” as there are people who will genuinely get a second or third use out of it. Recycling clothes also keeps them out of landfills.
When we do donate clothes, perhaps we should consider why we are giving it away. Is it filled with stains? Consider cutting it up into rags and use it to dust or clean your toilet. Is it way out of fashion? There are programs in high schools that accept old prom and bridesmaid dresses and re-fashion them into dashing new ball gowns for low income girls. (Cinderella project in Calgary, at least three of my bridesmaid dresses went there) Think about why you want to get rid of something and imagine a person on a downtown street in Calgary or Nairobi wearing it. Are you giving linens or crumbs?
Sunday, November 11, 2007
photo link
i have started to upload photos to picasa, as i can work offline with it and it is connected to my gmail and blog. if the connection was every fast enough i could probably make nice slideshows. but at the moment i have 5 minutes of battery time on the computer left, so I will post the link to my public gallery here...
http://picasaweb.google.com/alidafernhout
i hope it works... i hope to upload some more photos soon.
http://picasaweb.google.com/alidafernhout
i hope it works... i hope to upload some more photos soon.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
out of necessity
In the past month I have lost count of the number of professional athletes I have met in my town and village. I have a cousin (I have been adopted by a family here) who runs for the country of
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
the gods must be crazy
I thought I was in a film last night. I had arrived at the hospital compound from Nairobi at 5:30pm last night just as it was getting dark and it was raining heavily. Elizabeth, the nursing matron, went to arrange a ride home for me.
I am standing under the awning with some other staff when I see some headlights flicker on. Some smoke comes belching out of this small truck and I see someone looking under the hood and playing with some wires. After 10 minutes of revving the engine, flicking the lights, the truck suddenly comes lurching down the hill as if it has no brakes. The transistion was not smooth and it was jumping around like a frog about to be stepped on.
“Alida, that’s your ride,” someone says.
All I could do was laugh. I load my bags in the back and gingerly open the door. I am expecting it to fall off. Thankfully, it doesn’t and we set on our way. The truck is still jumping as if the driver is still learning to drive a stick shift. He laughs and says, “the battery is not very strong!”
Less than 50 metres down the road, Isaiah is sticking his head under the steering wheel to remove his shoes. Is there some special test I will have to pass to drive with my head under the steering wheel with no shoes on?
He explains, “there is very much water coming in from somewhere and it is making my shoes wet. I have to remove them so I can keep them dry.”
Again, all I could do was laugh. We slip and slide our way to my house, nearing taking out numerous pedestrians and fenceposts. We “stopped” to pick up one rider, although Isaiah had to simultaneously brake and step on the gas to keep the truck going.
We arrive at my house to a barbed wire gate which I have to take down so that Isaiah can turn the truck around. He manages to leave without getting stuck and I struggle not to rip my skin to shreds trying to put the barbed wires sticks back in place in the dark. I jump over my barbed wire shortcut with my suitcase and backpack to a warm, dry welcome at home.
Now, if you have never seen the movie “the gods must be crazy” you probably won’t think this is funny as I do. So, go rent the movie and you will understand my vehicular experience!
(addendum: my kenyan colleagues were laughing so hard at the scene that they told me to journal about it. they also have all seen "the gods must be crazy" and agreed it was similar.)
I am standing under the awning with some other staff when I see some headlights flicker on. Some smoke comes belching out of this small truck and I see someone looking under the hood and playing with some wires. After 10 minutes of revving the engine, flicking the lights, the truck suddenly comes lurching down the hill as if it has no brakes. The transistion was not smooth and it was jumping around like a frog about to be stepped on.
“Alida, that’s your ride,” someone says.
All I could do was laugh. I load my bags in the back and gingerly open the door. I am expecting it to fall off. Thankfully, it doesn’t and we set on our way. The truck is still jumping as if the driver is still learning to drive a stick shift. He laughs and says, “the battery is not very strong!”
Less than 50 metres down the road, Isaiah is sticking his head under the steering wheel to remove his shoes. Is there some special test I will have to pass to drive with my head under the steering wheel with no shoes on?
He explains, “there is very much water coming in from somewhere and it is making my shoes wet. I have to remove them so I can keep them dry.”
Again, all I could do was laugh. We slip and slide our way to my house, nearing taking out numerous pedestrians and fenceposts. We “stopped” to pick up one rider, although Isaiah had to simultaneously brake and step on the gas to keep the truck going.
We arrive at my house to a barbed wire gate which I have to take down so that Isaiah can turn the truck around. He manages to leave without getting stuck and I struggle not to rip my skin to shreds trying to put the barbed wires sticks back in place in the dark. I jump over my barbed wire shortcut with my suitcase and backpack to a warm, dry welcome at home.
Now, if you have never seen the movie “the gods must be crazy” you probably won’t think this is funny as I do. So, go rent the movie and you will understand my vehicular experience!
(addendum: my kenyan colleagues were laughing so hard at the scene that they told me to journal about it. they also have all seen "the gods must be crazy" and agreed it was similar.)
Sunday, October 21, 2007
new photos
i updated some photos, check out the links on the side.
i will write some new blogs this week, i have been very deliquent about that...
i will write some new blogs this week, i have been very deliquent about that...
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
facebookisms
Alida is….
*Learning to be a good farm girl in the Rift Valley.
*Building arm muscles stirring ugali (corn flour & water), shucking corn, and hauling water from a well for a bath.
*Getting her butt kicked racing school kids down the road, and their shoes are completely falling apart.
*Is hoping she gets nice legs and bum walking 5-10 km a day.
*Is absolutely itching to buy a bike so she can stop walking 5-10km a day.
*Really, really wanting to buy a 100cc Yamaha motorbike so she can ride on the dirt roads during rainy season and do the 40km round trek to town without dying on a matatu.
*Is wondering why there are 4 Bata shoe stores in the span of 2 blocks in downtown Eldoret.
*Shaking her head as a billionaire is flying overhead in his helicopter while 8 year old homeless kids are sniffing glue on the street.
*Having her skin touched, hands held, and hair tousled by curious children on the road.
*Being stared at most of the day by people who have not seen white people before.
*Going through a coffee withdrawal and looks forward to getting her bodum and fresh coffee from her bag in Nairobi.
*going to have broken hand rehabilitation by milking a cow very soon.
*has eaten 2 omelets in one week, after eating less than 5 eggs in 30 years.
*is drinking fresh cows milk every day.
*eating beans and potatoes for breakfast everyday
*the only person in the whole town who wears sunglasses.
*happy to be living 20 minutes down the road from and old college friend and his wife! (small world).
*learning a lot about very interesting beliefs about procreation….
*trying to avoid getting set up with a kenyan man and may start wearing her “stay single” tshirt.
*a cell phone owner even though she doesn’t hear it ring most of the time.
*a bit surprised that she has seen personal ads looking for a “God fearing, very fertile, intelligent, second wife” (again, that stay single tshirt)
*Learning to be a good farm girl in the Rift Valley.
*Building arm muscles stirring ugali (corn flour & water), shucking corn, and hauling water from a well for a bath.
*Getting her butt kicked racing school kids down the road, and their shoes are completely falling apart.
*Is hoping she gets nice legs and bum walking 5-10 km a day.
*Is absolutely itching to buy a bike so she can stop walking 5-10km a day.
*Really, really wanting to buy a 100cc Yamaha motorbike so she can ride on the dirt roads during rainy season and do the 40km round trek to town without dying on a matatu.
*Is wondering why there are 4 Bata shoe stores in the span of 2 blocks in downtown Eldoret.
*Shaking her head as a billionaire is flying overhead in his helicopter while 8 year old homeless kids are sniffing glue on the street.
*Having her skin touched, hands held, and hair tousled by curious children on the road.
*Being stared at most of the day by people who have not seen white people before.
*Going through a coffee withdrawal and looks forward to getting her bodum and fresh coffee from her bag in Nairobi.
*going to have broken hand rehabilitation by milking a cow very soon.
*has eaten 2 omelets in one week, after eating less than 5 eggs in 30 years.
*is drinking fresh cows milk every day.
*eating beans and potatoes for breakfast everyday
*the only person in the whole town who wears sunglasses.
*happy to be living 20 minutes down the road from and old college friend and his wife! (small world).
*learning a lot about very interesting beliefs about procreation….
*trying to avoid getting set up with a kenyan man and may start wearing her “stay single” tshirt.
*a cell phone owner even though she doesn’t hear it ring most of the time.
*a bit surprised that she has seen personal ads looking for a “God fearing, very fertile, intelligent, second wife” (again, that stay single tshirt)
farm girl
As a young girl, I resembled Laura Ingalls from the TV show so much that I was asked for my autograph on a couple of occasions. Even watching the show now, I feel like I am looking in a mirror. I had the two long braids, big buck teeth, but lacked the bloomers and bonnet. Well, I now understand the advantage of bloomers. When it is less than 10 degrees Celsius and you have just bathed in a wooden shelter out of a bucket and now must put on a skirt, bloomers would probably be nice and warm!
But by the time I am finished living in rural Kenya, Laura Ingalls is going to have some stiff competition. I have already honed my drawing-water-from-a-well skills in Indonesia and Nigeria and can do it so well that even African women are impressed with my knack for hauling H20.
I am currently learning how to properly stir ugali to a perfect paste in an “African kitchen” over a wood burning mud stove. And I can tell you, it looks easier than it is. Try mixing cement in a steel pot over a fire with smoke in your eyes. Mama said I am almost ready for independence and I will soon be preparing it on my own without any flour clumps in it.
Baba has threatened that I will be milking the cows as soon as my hand is healed, or did he say it would be good therapy to heal my hand?
I stopped using the headlamp to go to the outhouse because I could see how many spider webs were gracing the wooden throne. I am now probably one of the fastest bathers in the world as the warm water quickly evaporates off my cold skin in the bathing shelter in the cool of the Kenyan morning. Living at an elevation of 8,000 feet has its benefits in keeping the weather cool and it is never so evident to me at bath time. Alas, I do bathe with warm water which I truly appreciate!
You know how your parents had to walk 5 miles to school in the snow uphill both ways? I almost have them beat with walking 2 km each way through muddy roads and farmland to work although I don’t have to go uphill. This morning I had 5 pounds of mud on each shoe despite following Mama down the railroad half the way to the hospital. I am quickly becoming an expert in avoiding stepping in cow poo without even looking down at the road.
Although they do not have covered wagons here, I am sure that hopping in the back of a pickup truck and bouncing down a Kenyan dirt road is just as challenging. On Saturday I wedged myself between metal gates and bags of cement in the back of a little Isuzu and tried to precariously hang onto the sides while it bumped through 2 foot potholes. (I think I need to make friends with the local billionaire who just flies his helicopter to avoid road traffic – no lie, it was flying over me on Sunday on my way home from church).
I am fortunate enough to do my Swahili homework by electric lights and not kerosene lamps. But we have some just in case as the power goes out at least once a day.
All of these rural experiences are molding me into a more versatile and grateful person. I love the family who is sharing their home and life with me. I am learning how to be flexible in a challenging environment. And I am practicing my audition in case they ever decide to do a “Little House on the Prairie 2: Alida vs. Laura.”
But by the time I am finished living in rural Kenya, Laura Ingalls is going to have some stiff competition. I have already honed my drawing-water-from-a-well skills in Indonesia and Nigeria and can do it so well that even African women are impressed with my knack for hauling H20.
I am currently learning how to properly stir ugali to a perfect paste in an “African kitchen” over a wood burning mud stove. And I can tell you, it looks easier than it is. Try mixing cement in a steel pot over a fire with smoke in your eyes. Mama said I am almost ready for independence and I will soon be preparing it on my own without any flour clumps in it.
Baba has threatened that I will be milking the cows as soon as my hand is healed, or did he say it would be good therapy to heal my hand?
I stopped using the headlamp to go to the outhouse because I could see how many spider webs were gracing the wooden throne. I am now probably one of the fastest bathers in the world as the warm water quickly evaporates off my cold skin in the bathing shelter in the cool of the Kenyan morning. Living at an elevation of 8,000 feet has its benefits in keeping the weather cool and it is never so evident to me at bath time. Alas, I do bathe with warm water which I truly appreciate!
You know how your parents had to walk 5 miles to school in the snow uphill both ways? I almost have them beat with walking 2 km each way through muddy roads and farmland to work although I don’t have to go uphill. This morning I had 5 pounds of mud on each shoe despite following Mama down the railroad half the way to the hospital. I am quickly becoming an expert in avoiding stepping in cow poo without even looking down at the road.
Although they do not have covered wagons here, I am sure that hopping in the back of a pickup truck and bouncing down a Kenyan dirt road is just as challenging. On Saturday I wedged myself between metal gates and bags of cement in the back of a little Isuzu and tried to precariously hang onto the sides while it bumped through 2 foot potholes. (I think I need to make friends with the local billionaire who just flies his helicopter to avoid road traffic – no lie, it was flying over me on Sunday on my way home from church).
I am fortunate enough to do my Swahili homework by electric lights and not kerosene lamps. But we have some just in case as the power goes out at least once a day.
All of these rural experiences are molding me into a more versatile and grateful person. I love the family who is sharing their home and life with me. I am learning how to be flexible in a challenging environment. And I am practicing my audition in case they ever decide to do a “Little House on the Prairie 2: Alida vs. Laura.”
mzungu
Gringo, bature, mzungu – they are some of the words that identify me as a person in a culture that is not my own. White person – two words that can at times make me cringe. I have never been very sure if these words are simply a description or are said in a context that carries some spite, anger or discontent.
One of my Swahili teachers provided one plausible explanation for the history of the word mzungu that does not bring with it a derogatory feeling.
The coastal people of Kenya used a bluff overlooking the water to watch for sinister weather but one day saw something else that was even stranger than a bad storm. Over the whitecaps, they saw a strange moving thing with large flapping sheets. As it drew nearer, they became frightened by this enormous thing moving on the water. But even more disturbing was what was on the boat. They saw creatures with very light skin, long hair and even wild hair on their faces. The coastal people had never seen anything like these creatures and decided it would be best to escape before the creatures landed. They ran for over a month and arrived in what is was known as Zanzibar. They told the local people they had run from strange creatures arriving on the coast of their homeland. They couldn’t be sure what they were or what their intentions were, but they thought it best to stay away from them. They had been settled there for little more than a month, when again they spotted these large vessels with the strange creatures approaching Zanzibar. They exclaimed that these creatures have “been coming around” as they went from their homeland and now were “coming around” to Zanzibar. The verb for “coming around” in Swahili is “zunguka” and to “be surrounded” is “zungukwa.” Thus, they created the word, “mzungu” for these strange creatures that were coming around.
Whether or not this explanation is exactly true, I do not know, but I know that I am stuck with the name mzungu regardless. My host mother explained to me today that some of the children out here in the Rift Valley have never seen a white person before; they only know the word to describe what they see. Some of the children think that my name is actually mzungu, hence they believe they are calling me by name as I pass by their farm. So, I no longer cringe when I hear mzungu whispered by a 3 year old in downtown Nairobi or yelled across a field in the Rift Valley, for they are greeting me by name. And I am coming around to greet them.
One of my Swahili teachers provided one plausible explanation for the history of the word mzungu that does not bring with it a derogatory feeling.
The coastal people of Kenya used a bluff overlooking the water to watch for sinister weather but one day saw something else that was even stranger than a bad storm. Over the whitecaps, they saw a strange moving thing with large flapping sheets. As it drew nearer, they became frightened by this enormous thing moving on the water. But even more disturbing was what was on the boat. They saw creatures with very light skin, long hair and even wild hair on their faces. The coastal people had never seen anything like these creatures and decided it would be best to escape before the creatures landed. They ran for over a month and arrived in what is was known as Zanzibar. They told the local people they had run from strange creatures arriving on the coast of their homeland. They couldn’t be sure what they were or what their intentions were, but they thought it best to stay away from them. They had been settled there for little more than a month, when again they spotted these large vessels with the strange creatures approaching Zanzibar. They exclaimed that these creatures have “been coming around” as they went from their homeland and now were “coming around” to Zanzibar. The verb for “coming around” in Swahili is “zunguka” and to “be surrounded” is “zungukwa.” Thus, they created the word, “mzungu” for these strange creatures that were coming around.
Whether or not this explanation is exactly true, I do not know, but I know that I am stuck with the name mzungu regardless. My host mother explained to me today that some of the children out here in the Rift Valley have never seen a white person before; they only know the word to describe what they see. Some of the children think that my name is actually mzungu, hence they believe they are calling me by name as I pass by their farm. So, I no longer cringe when I hear mzungu whispered by a 3 year old in downtown Nairobi or yelled across a field in the Rift Valley, for they are greeting me by name. And I am coming around to greet them.
incognito
Even in the best of times I am not a very subtle person. Among friends and family I am known to be opinionated, loud at times, laugh loudly when it is quiet, and people generally know when I am around. I made a “disturbing” speech about HIV & AIDS from the pulpit of my childhood church shortly before I left for Kenya. I said the word sex several times and if people didn’t know who I was before, they certainly are not likely to forget now. I am not very incognito.
Now, imagine this loud, outspoken girl in Kenya where her skin colour speaks volumes before she even opens her mouth. Incognito, I think not. In addition to my light skin colour, I arrived with a broken hand which was bandaged and drew many stares by itself. When I didn’t want to explain extreme mountain biking to people, I joked that I had punched someone and broke my hand (I usually told this to tall men with guns, not grandmas or children). I again realized I was not incognito when after my cast was removed, I walked through a government building area in Nairobi and a guard that I didn’t recognize, but had apparently conversed with, yelled jokingly after me, “Don’t hit any more people!” I garnered a few stares from passerby’s and smiled very gently at them.
Now, I am living in the Kenyan countryside in an area that few white people frequent. As I make my six kilometer trek from the main road to the farm, children and adults alike run from their homes, abandon their cows, and stop their work to stare as I pass by. I greet each and every one with a “habari yako” or “what’s the news” to which they give the standard reply of “nzuri” or “fine” but stand with a look of astonishment. School children run after me in groups, and when I greet them they literally somersault on the ground in peels of laughter. I have barely opened my mouth in public in a week, but my physical presence is speaking volumes. Incognito, I think not.
Now, imagine this loud, outspoken girl in Kenya where her skin colour speaks volumes before she even opens her mouth. Incognito, I think not. In addition to my light skin colour, I arrived with a broken hand which was bandaged and drew many stares by itself. When I didn’t want to explain extreme mountain biking to people, I joked that I had punched someone and broke my hand (I usually told this to tall men with guns, not grandmas or children). I again realized I was not incognito when after my cast was removed, I walked through a government building area in Nairobi and a guard that I didn’t recognize, but had apparently conversed with, yelled jokingly after me, “Don’t hit any more people!” I garnered a few stares from passerby’s and smiled very gently at them.
Now, I am living in the Kenyan countryside in an area that few white people frequent. As I make my six kilometer trek from the main road to the farm, children and adults alike run from their homes, abandon their cows, and stop their work to stare as I pass by. I greet each and every one with a “habari yako” or “what’s the news” to which they give the standard reply of “nzuri” or “fine” but stand with a look of astonishment. School children run after me in groups, and when I greet them they literally somersault on the ground in peels of laughter. I have barely opened my mouth in public in a week, but my physical presence is speaking volumes. Incognito, I think not.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
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...
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...
Friday, September 21, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
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”
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.
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.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
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."
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."
Sunday, September 02, 2007
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.
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.
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