a thought provoking, challenging, and funny TED talk by chimamanda adichie - a gifted nigerian writer.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
me, a monk, and i
"my Lord God, i have no idea where i am going. i do not see the road ahead of me. i cannot know for certain where it will end. nor do i really know myself, and the fact that i think i am following your will does not mean that i am actually doing so. but i believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. and i hope i have that desire in all that i am doing. i hope that i will never do anything apart from that desire. and i know that, if i do this, You will lead me by the right road, though i may know nothing about it. therefore i will trust You always though i may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. i will not fear, you You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone."
"in one sense we are always traveling, and traveling as if we did not know where we were going.
in another sense we have already arrived.
we cannot arrive at the perfect possession of God in this life, and that is why we are traveling and in darkness. but we already possess Him by grace, and therefore, in that sense, we have arrived and are dwelling in the light.
But oh! how far have i to go to find You in Whom i have already arrived!"
"My God, i frankly do not understand your ways with me. you fill me with desires that people have been canonized for having and for carrying out. then You tell me to to carry them out, and You tell me in such a way that it would seem to be a sin if i carried them out. then You make the desires grow more and more until they consume the very foundations of my life. are You trying to kill me?"
"i will travel to You, Lord, through a thousand blind alleys.
You want to bring me to You through stone walls."
i've been reading "dialogues with silence" by thomas merton (all above quotes are written by merton).
outwardly, i have nothing in common with merton. he was a trappist monk who wore brown robes and lived on a commune. he was bald and probably gardened. i'm a girl living in vancouver with a growing collection of shoes and i like red sweaters. i live near the beach and don't pray for hours a day.
inwardly, i feel as though i am reading about my own inner struggle, though merton's writings are more than 50 years old and from a very different place. it is comforting to know that a guy who devoted his entire life to living strictly godly life struggled with solitude, silence, and finding God. i figured, if anyone has found God, it would be a monk in a scratchy robe.
i find comfort in these writings.
i am learning to sit in silence.
and in that silence, i am learning to hear the Spirit of God.
without Him ever saying a word.
Friday, July 10, 2009
water
ever thought about how much you pay for water by the litre? i mean other than when you pay $2 for a small bottle of water (that probably came out of the tap and was then bottled and sold as "extra purified"
I just read about the current price of water in the Nairobi slums - for one jerry can, which is about 20-30 litres of water, people have to pay over a dollar. so, the poorest people in the world, are paying more than their daily salary, for something simple, yet absolutely necessary. now, would i ever consider paying $300 for 20 litres of water? no, we would probably have protests and bring the government down for that kind of abuse.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8144415.stm
i recently listened to a very old radio show with stuart mclean and peter gzowski, dated from 1986. They were talking about what they could get for a dollar at that time. Stuart mclean said that Toronto city water costs 5 cents for 25 gallons (enough to fill a phone booth if you still know what those are). The men then laughed about the fact that we pay a mere nickle for that large amount of water and then the city happily takes back the water we have dirtied, to clean it, process it, and purify it many times over. all for 5 cents for 25 gallons.
http://archives.cbc.ca/arts_entertainment/media/clips/12587/
(it is a pretty funny program actually - have a listen if you want to listen to old fashioned radio)
so, the wealthiest of the wealthy (yes, that includes all of us) pay the least amount for a life sustaining necessity, while the poorest of the poor pay prices that put gold to shame.
injustice at its best.
Friday, June 05, 2009
house hunting
i do not like looking for new places to live. likely because i often seem to make bad decisions and live in crappy places. my first year in calgary was a testament to that! my first "room" was in the basement of a house that i ended up sharing with a sketchy guy - i ended up calling the police because he was beating up his girlfriend on the front street. and the mice were eating my food, hearing the trap snap under my bed at night didn't help with sleeping either...
and then there was living with 5 chinese phd students in a house that has always had medical students living in it. cheap rent, check. bovine solution under the bathroom sink, check. a roommate with possible tb, check.
i thought i had learned my lessons. when looking at apartments last december here in vancouver, i thought i was seeing nice places. the managers of one apartment that i really liked required my credit card number and bank account number on the application form. mmm, i think not. i really liked my current place because of the neighbourhood and the "character" of the house. i should have caught on when the landlord starting telling me about his personal life during the viewing. i think the gas fireplace and in-suite washer and dryer were enticing me.
i am moving again. partly because i can't stand my apartment anymore. it is too dark and the landlord likes to throw many a dinner party. high heels on the hardwood floors sound like thunder. they also sold the house and the new owners take possession at the end of the month. i wonder if they know the lady of the house just took the entire fireplace mantle with her. and thanks to the movers, i found out why the light on the mantle never worked. a screw had been drilled right through the cord. i think i have had enough mayhem with cords starting things on fire in my life...
so i went apartment hunting today. what was most interesting was seeing a part of strangers lives. one place was inhabited by a fairly messy and dirty guy. but he evidently snowboarded, biked, surfed, is a dj complete with 2 tables, and just finished a masters. mmm, like to meet him:-)
i'd like the meet the next guy more - this guy had a nice little bachelor, good taste in furniture, was tidy and clean, surfed, biked, read lots of books, AND tastefully decorated his apartment with skateboard decks mounted on the walls. he had apparently met tony hawk as evidenced by the signed deck. now, i really wanted to meet this guy!!
i was appalled by one girl. landlords have to give 48 hours notice that they are showing apartments. all these tenants know that their apartment is being shown to multiple strangers. the landlord opened the door, and literally the first thing i had to step over was a bright turquoise bra. next to the front door. dirty underwear was strewn a few steps further. granted it was a bachelor and so not very big, but seriously, leaving your underwear next to the front door?
the other apartment in that building, right next door to the dirty bachelor girl, is the apartment i am thinking of getting. it is a big one bedroom, hardwood floors, lots of south facing windows in the living room, a balcony, decent sized kitchen. the disadvantage is that i will have to carry my bike up 2-3 flights of stairs and keep it in the apartment. and the bedroom wall is shared with the next apartments bedroom wall. what if some "very active" person moves in there? i might need permanent ear plugs!
however, here is the clincher. the landlord starting telling me about his bad day because he had just put his 17 year old cat to sleep 2 hours before and he was having a rough time of it. he kept talking about the cat. that is not bad in and of itself, but my current landlord also told me sob stories while showing me the apartment and it has kind of sucked living here. do i take it as a bad omen that landlords tell me sob stories while showing me apartments? or do i just exude such caring and compassion that they feel compelled to tell me?
and here is another dilemma. this apartment is 800 metres from kitsilano beach and about 4 km from jericho beach. (i am currently about 800 metres from jericho). i like jericho beach better than kits beach... (i know, cry myself a river right)
so, do i consider taking this bright, sunny, roomy apartment with the sad landlord or do i hold out and hope something better comes along in the next 2 weeks?
i see 2 more places tomorrow... it will then be decision time...
any advice? are sad landlords a bad omen or do i go by how the place looks?
and then there was living with 5 chinese phd students in a house that has always had medical students living in it. cheap rent, check. bovine solution under the bathroom sink, check. a roommate with possible tb, check.
i thought i had learned my lessons. when looking at apartments last december here in vancouver, i thought i was seeing nice places. the managers of one apartment that i really liked required my credit card number and bank account number on the application form. mmm, i think not. i really liked my current place because of the neighbourhood and the "character" of the house. i should have caught on when the landlord starting telling me about his personal life during the viewing. i think the gas fireplace and in-suite washer and dryer were enticing me.
i am moving again. partly because i can't stand my apartment anymore. it is too dark and the landlord likes to throw many a dinner party. high heels on the hardwood floors sound like thunder. they also sold the house and the new owners take possession at the end of the month. i wonder if they know the lady of the house just took the entire fireplace mantle with her. and thanks to the movers, i found out why the light on the mantle never worked. a screw had been drilled right through the cord. i think i have had enough mayhem with cords starting things on fire in my life...
so i went apartment hunting today. what was most interesting was seeing a part of strangers lives. one place was inhabited by a fairly messy and dirty guy. but he evidently snowboarded, biked, surfed, is a dj complete with 2 tables, and just finished a masters. mmm, like to meet him:-)
i'd like the meet the next guy more - this guy had a nice little bachelor, good taste in furniture, was tidy and clean, surfed, biked, read lots of books, AND tastefully decorated his apartment with skateboard decks mounted on the walls. he had apparently met tony hawk as evidenced by the signed deck. now, i really wanted to meet this guy!!
i was appalled by one girl. landlords have to give 48 hours notice that they are showing apartments. all these tenants know that their apartment is being shown to multiple strangers. the landlord opened the door, and literally the first thing i had to step over was a bright turquoise bra. next to the front door. dirty underwear was strewn a few steps further. granted it was a bachelor and so not very big, but seriously, leaving your underwear next to the front door?
the other apartment in that building, right next door to the dirty bachelor girl, is the apartment i am thinking of getting. it is a big one bedroom, hardwood floors, lots of south facing windows in the living room, a balcony, decent sized kitchen. the disadvantage is that i will have to carry my bike up 2-3 flights of stairs and keep it in the apartment. and the bedroom wall is shared with the next apartments bedroom wall. what if some "very active" person moves in there? i might need permanent ear plugs!
however, here is the clincher. the landlord starting telling me about his bad day because he had just put his 17 year old cat to sleep 2 hours before and he was having a rough time of it. he kept talking about the cat. that is not bad in and of itself, but my current landlord also told me sob stories while showing me the apartment and it has kind of sucked living here. do i take it as a bad omen that landlords tell me sob stories while showing me apartments? or do i just exude such caring and compassion that they feel compelled to tell me?
and here is another dilemma. this apartment is 800 metres from kitsilano beach and about 4 km from jericho beach. (i am currently about 800 metres from jericho). i like jericho beach better than kits beach... (i know, cry myself a river right)
so, do i consider taking this bright, sunny, roomy apartment with the sad landlord or do i hold out and hope something better comes along in the next 2 weeks?
i see 2 more places tomorrow... it will then be decision time...
any advice? are sad landlords a bad omen or do i go by how the place looks?
addendum: the last place i saw is the one i got. a one bedroom with hardwood floors two blocks from kits beach with lots of big windows to let the sunshine in! and a bike room, so no carrying my bike up 3 flights of stairs! yeah!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
a day in the life of vancouver
here are a few photos of life in vancouver...
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=120535&id=528770294&l=fc4c7655fb
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=123292&id=528770294&l=f2e9aff3eb
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
these are the people in your neighbourhood...
i really like where i live. while it is "trendy" and expensive, i am quite happy with my choice to live in kitsilano.
the obvious aside, that i live next to the ocean in an old neighbourhood with big, old trees, i enjoy the fact that families go out for walks together, that i found a willow tree next to the ocean, that people walk to the grocery store, that the buses will be full on a friday night, that independent coffee shops and bookstores outnumber the chain stores, people take a bike ride for enjoyment, that i have the salty smell of sea in my nose...
but two of my favourite things are this: on the corner of 4th and macdonald, someone very mysterious puts out free things every day. a few weeks ago there was an entertainment unit complete with knick knacks. last week, there was a collection of comforters and pillows, over the weekend, a wedding dress hung on the fence with a collection of sneakers lined up underneath, and today, a kitchen sink. and people take them, because the stuff is always gone at the end of the day.
i have been taking photos of them with my phone and if i can ever figure out how to get them off my phone and on a computer, i will.
but this early spring evening, a woman working in the garden made my day. i was walking along laden with grocery bags, and an old woman starts talking to me
"wait!! wait! i need to tell you something!"
she literally comes running from her garden to her front gate and starts looking at my grocery bags. i thought i had food falling out of them or something.
and here is what she tells me (in her exact words)
"so, someone asked,
'where do moose come from?'
and the other person said from moosejaw!
and then the person said 'where do cows come from?'
why from cowgary of course!"
(interjection of 'oh, now that one's funny isn't it)
but listen to this - a foreigner in australia asked one of those native folks
'what are those things jumping around?'
and since the native person, you know, they didn't speak any english or anything, i mean why should they, said
'kangaroo - i don't know' (pregnant pause after this)
isn't that funny! kangaroo means i don't know in that native tongue!!
what is that native tongue anyway? i think in new zealand it is maori, is that right? well, gee i just don't know what it is in australia.
but isn't that cute. it is so great to tell children!!
(at this point, i thought she meant that i was the child and she was telling me the joke)
and she continues " so go, tell a child that. isn't it precious! oh, they just love it! kangaroo - i don't know" i've read it in at least 4 different places, that kangaroo means that. oohh, children just love it...
i thanked the woman profusely and promised to tell children her joke.
and i walked away smiling..
the obvious aside, that i live next to the ocean in an old neighbourhood with big, old trees, i enjoy the fact that families go out for walks together, that i found a willow tree next to the ocean, that people walk to the grocery store, that the buses will be full on a friday night, that independent coffee shops and bookstores outnumber the chain stores, people take a bike ride for enjoyment, that i have the salty smell of sea in my nose...
but two of my favourite things are this: on the corner of 4th and macdonald, someone very mysterious puts out free things every day. a few weeks ago there was an entertainment unit complete with knick knacks. last week, there was a collection of comforters and pillows, over the weekend, a wedding dress hung on the fence with a collection of sneakers lined up underneath, and today, a kitchen sink. and people take them, because the stuff is always gone at the end of the day.
i have been taking photos of them with my phone and if i can ever figure out how to get them off my phone and on a computer, i will.
but this early spring evening, a woman working in the garden made my day. i was walking along laden with grocery bags, and an old woman starts talking to me
"wait!! wait! i need to tell you something!"
she literally comes running from her garden to her front gate and starts looking at my grocery bags. i thought i had food falling out of them or something.
and here is what she tells me (in her exact words)
"so, someone asked,
'where do moose come from?'
and the other person said from moosejaw!
and then the person said 'where do cows come from?'
why from cowgary of course!"
(interjection of 'oh, now that one's funny isn't it)
but listen to this - a foreigner in australia asked one of those native folks
'what are those things jumping around?'
and since the native person, you know, they didn't speak any english or anything, i mean why should they, said
'kangaroo - i don't know' (pregnant pause after this)
isn't that funny! kangaroo means i don't know in that native tongue!!
what is that native tongue anyway? i think in new zealand it is maori, is that right? well, gee i just don't know what it is in australia.
but isn't that cute. it is so great to tell children!!
(at this point, i thought she meant that i was the child and she was telling me the joke)
and she continues " so go, tell a child that. isn't it precious! oh, they just love it! kangaroo - i don't know" i've read it in at least 4 different places, that kangaroo means that. oohh, children just love it...
i thanked the woman profusely and promised to tell children her joke.
and i walked away smiling..
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
little alida
i still kind of feel sorry for little alida - that she is stuck with my weird name. considering few people in canada being able to say it properly, never mind spell it, i don't know what the future holds for this little girl in kenya! at least it kind of complies with swahili language in that every letter in the name is actually pronounced. that should make it easier!
i was able to visit alidajoy and her family in november. the home is filled with girls and loving parents - bless her father, he has to put up with alot of estrogen!
she takes awhile to warm up to strangers...
... but is pretty darn cute when she starts smiling :-)
i was able to visit alidajoy and her family in november. the home is filled with girls and loving parents - bless her father, he has to put up with alot of estrogen!
she takes awhile to warm up to strangers...
... but is pretty darn cute when she starts smiling :-)
the house is packed with girls - 3 sisters, a cousin, mom
the girls referred to me as mzungu alida (white alida)
and her as mkenya alida (kenyan alida)
the big, happy family.
the girls referred to me as mzungu alida (white alida)
and her as mkenya alida (kenyan alida)
the big, happy family.Saturday, January 31, 2009
message in minneapolis
www.curlygirldesign.comI found this card in a gift shop in the Minneapolis airport on my way back to East Africa for vacation. It seems to have been made for me.
Although I am still trying to figure out why I am back in Canada when I would much rather be somewhere else.
I hope to eventually figure it out, or at least become content with not knowing why...
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
i love my leatherman
i have found more uses for my leatherman knife. in addition to pruning trees and giving myself pedicures with it, i spent the weekend reupholstering an old chair. i used several parts of the knife to finish the job. it was just missing a sewing needle. maybe i should suggest it....
so here is my first attempt at upholstery...
before after
the chair was evidently old, as the stuffing is made from hay and cotton
i decided to keep this is as the stuffing, basically because i have no idea how to make new stuffing. i made patterns from the old pieces, cut some new ones, stapled them on with my new heavy duty stapler (after shooting staples all over the basement with the old, broken stapler), and then hand stitched the backing on. hopefully i will sit on it once in awhile! although every time i do, i feel like i should start cross stitching or something! kind of fun to actually do something productive with my time!
so here is my first attempt at upholstery...
before after
the chair was evidently old, as the stuffing is made from hay and cotton
i decided to keep this is as the stuffing, basically because i have no idea how to make new stuffing. i made patterns from the old pieces, cut some new ones, stapled them on with my new heavy duty stapler (after shooting staples all over the basement with the old, broken stapler), and then hand stitched the backing on. hopefully i will sit on it once in awhile! although every time i do, i feel like i should start cross stitching or something! kind of fun to actually do something productive with my time!
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
how to avoid getting robbed in nairobbery
i have been building up ample experience in avoiding getting robbed. i have had people attempt to rob me at least 7 times here in kenya, and not once have they succeeded. i learned alot of tricks during my time in eastern europe as they are total experts in pickpocketing and bag stealing. little did the street teams of eldoret and nairobi know that i am already on to them...
so i will share how not to get robbed in nairobbery...
do not walk around with your backpack on your back, admiring the skyline of nairobi (or the garbage dumps of eldoret), blissfully thinking about the fact that you are visiting or living in africa. wearing your "back"pack on your back is an invitation to have it sliced open with a razor blade and all the contents emptied while you are composing the next blog entry in your head. you must sling the bag on your side or even wear it on the front. i did that in eldoret and looked pretty stupid but i kept all my money and my phone.
do not be a polite canadian (or "westerner") and apologize when someone bumps into you on the street. you have just apologized to the person who was trying to rob you. i learned this trick in budapest. people "bump" you and your bag and while you are catching your balance they have emptied your bag. this happened to me 6 times on the streets of eldoret. they usually work in teams. one guy bumped my "back"pack (which was on my hip) on a fairly empty street. i whipped around to check the source and a guy quickly walked by holding a briefcase on his chest. i don't know about you, but generally businessmen do not hold their briefcase across their chest. i checked my bag, it was intact and started walking again. bumped again! and a second guy with a briefcase rapidly walking by. a little suspicious... this time, he had unzipped the outer pocket and had evidently gotten his hand in my bag, but all he found was an umbrella and a piece of paper. if they are not concealing their hands with a briefcase, they often have one arm out of the sleeve of their jacket and quickly conceal whatever they have stolen under their jacket when they are done. a rather scruffy looking guy in eldoret tried that on me. "bumped" me, then was surprised to see me whip around to look at him. he tried to non-chalantly walk across the street while i eyed him. he looked a little embarrassed to be caught by the white girl.
do not pack your wallet in an outside pocket of your bag or have it somewhere easily accessible. stick it deep down or sandwich it between other things. it is harder to get at if they are slicing the side of your bag.
do not wear those neck pouches that all the travel stores sell. one, they look dumb. even if they are under your shirt. the big bulky rectangle between your boobs is not exactly incognito. having a strap around your neck is also a little stupid. cause they can choke you with it, or as they are slicing the string, accidentally slice your neck. and i don't think mec or rei offers medical insurance with those pouches.
don't walk around with your lonely planet book out or unfold maps while walking down a street. is that explanation enough? if you need directions, ask one of the guards outside of a bank.
don't shout to your friend that you are going to run to the barclays atm. also watch who is around you as you walk up, keep your peripheral view open while withdrawing money, and don't help people who claim that their card "doesn't seem to be working." Scan the area as you walk away, and walk with purpose. Seems excessive, but do you want to part with the $150 you just took out?
do not allow the boys or men selling plastic bags on the street or near a market to distract you with conversation or even try to sell you a bag. if you want a bag, go and purposely pick someone out and have your 10 shillings ready. one guy waved a plastic bag in my face with one hand while he thought he was stealthily taking the phone out of my pocket with the other. i felt him take it and whipped around and shouted that he give it back. i was fortunate that it was not busy and the street wasn't crowded. he didn't have a chance to pass it off to another bag boy friend. he was so startled by the finger in his face and the crazy white chick demanding her phone back that he actually gave it back!
don't have your phone in a jacket pocket. i learned the hard way. keep it in your bag.
be aware on matatus. if people start changing seats in the middle of the ride and cause "commotions" inside the vehicle, they are busy stealing your phone. last week a guy with an "injured" knee asked my friend to move. when she refused he magically got in the very back with his "injured" knee. he and his friend started switching seats beside me before we even left. his friend had a big piece of posterboard in a plastic bag and tried to act like it was a rare art print that could not be bent. he was trying to hold it between me and my bag so that he could insert his hand into my bag while i politely allowed him to protect his art. unfortunately for him, i didn't care what was in his big bag and shoved it back onto his lap. they were kicked off the matatu within about a minute and everyone checked that they had their phones.
the other matatu tricks are your neighbour pretending to try to access his seat belt or offering to help you find yours. NO ONE in nairobi wears their seatbelt in a matatu or even tries to find it. an expat learned that last week but lost $150 out of his pocket in the process.
try not to open your bag if you are sitting next to an open window, especially in the back seats. a guy stole my friends phone right out her bag and took off running. she was stuck in the back of the matatu and helplessly watched him run off with her phone.
don't yell "thief" at someone unless you are willing to watch them get beaten to death in front of you by mob justice. i have witnessed it once and it was traumatizing enough that i never want to see it again. (i was not the once who yelled thief thank God)
and that, my friends, is some sage advice on how not to get robbed in nairobbery.
so i will share how not to get robbed in nairobbery...
do not walk around with your backpack on your back, admiring the skyline of nairobi (or the garbage dumps of eldoret), blissfully thinking about the fact that you are visiting or living in africa. wearing your "back"pack on your back is an invitation to have it sliced open with a razor blade and all the contents emptied while you are composing the next blog entry in your head. you must sling the bag on your side or even wear it on the front. i did that in eldoret and looked pretty stupid but i kept all my money and my phone.
do not be a polite canadian (or "westerner") and apologize when someone bumps into you on the street. you have just apologized to the person who was trying to rob you. i learned this trick in budapest. people "bump" you and your bag and while you are catching your balance they have emptied your bag. this happened to me 6 times on the streets of eldoret. they usually work in teams. one guy bumped my "back"pack (which was on my hip) on a fairly empty street. i whipped around to check the source and a guy quickly walked by holding a briefcase on his chest. i don't know about you, but generally businessmen do not hold their briefcase across their chest. i checked my bag, it was intact and started walking again. bumped again! and a second guy with a briefcase rapidly walking by. a little suspicious... this time, he had unzipped the outer pocket and had evidently gotten his hand in my bag, but all he found was an umbrella and a piece of paper. if they are not concealing their hands with a briefcase, they often have one arm out of the sleeve of their jacket and quickly conceal whatever they have stolen under their jacket when they are done. a rather scruffy looking guy in eldoret tried that on me. "bumped" me, then was surprised to see me whip around to look at him. he tried to non-chalantly walk across the street while i eyed him. he looked a little embarrassed to be caught by the white girl.
do not pack your wallet in an outside pocket of your bag or have it somewhere easily accessible. stick it deep down or sandwich it between other things. it is harder to get at if they are slicing the side of your bag.
do not wear those neck pouches that all the travel stores sell. one, they look dumb. even if they are under your shirt. the big bulky rectangle between your boobs is not exactly incognito. having a strap around your neck is also a little stupid. cause they can choke you with it, or as they are slicing the string, accidentally slice your neck. and i don't think mec or rei offers medical insurance with those pouches.
don't walk around with your lonely planet book out or unfold maps while walking down a street. is that explanation enough? if you need directions, ask one of the guards outside of a bank.
don't shout to your friend that you are going to run to the barclays atm. also watch who is around you as you walk up, keep your peripheral view open while withdrawing money, and don't help people who claim that their card "doesn't seem to be working." Scan the area as you walk away, and walk with purpose. Seems excessive, but do you want to part with the $150 you just took out?
do not allow the boys or men selling plastic bags on the street or near a market to distract you with conversation or even try to sell you a bag. if you want a bag, go and purposely pick someone out and have your 10 shillings ready. one guy waved a plastic bag in my face with one hand while he thought he was stealthily taking the phone out of my pocket with the other. i felt him take it and whipped around and shouted that he give it back. i was fortunate that it was not busy and the street wasn't crowded. he didn't have a chance to pass it off to another bag boy friend. he was so startled by the finger in his face and the crazy white chick demanding her phone back that he actually gave it back!
don't have your phone in a jacket pocket. i learned the hard way. keep it in your bag.
be aware on matatus. if people start changing seats in the middle of the ride and cause "commotions" inside the vehicle, they are busy stealing your phone. last week a guy with an "injured" knee asked my friend to move. when she refused he magically got in the very back with his "injured" knee. he and his friend started switching seats beside me before we even left. his friend had a big piece of posterboard in a plastic bag and tried to act like it was a rare art print that could not be bent. he was trying to hold it between me and my bag so that he could insert his hand into my bag while i politely allowed him to protect his art. unfortunately for him, i didn't care what was in his big bag and shoved it back onto his lap. they were kicked off the matatu within about a minute and everyone checked that they had their phones.
the other matatu tricks are your neighbour pretending to try to access his seat belt or offering to help you find yours. NO ONE in nairobi wears their seatbelt in a matatu or even tries to find it. an expat learned that last week but lost $150 out of his pocket in the process.
try not to open your bag if you are sitting next to an open window, especially in the back seats. a guy stole my friends phone right out her bag and took off running. she was stuck in the back of the matatu and helplessly watched him run off with her phone.
don't yell "thief" at someone unless you are willing to watch them get beaten to death in front of you by mob justice. i have witnessed it once and it was traumatizing enough that i never want to see it again. (i was not the once who yelled thief thank God)
and that, my friends, is some sage advice on how not to get robbed in nairobbery.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
sound of goodbye
sometimes the sound of goodbye is louder than any drum beat
armin van buuren
i have been back in canada for a few weeks now, adjusting to a place that is seemingly the same, yet just a little different than when i left it over a year ago. and i look seemingly the same, yet am a whole lot different.
my last couple of weeks in kenya were incredibly difficult. having to leave a place that i had so grown to love more deeply than i had realized. how to say goodbye, what to say, what not to say. but more often than not, words were not necessary. more often than not, i was sure the sound of my heart breaking would deafen all those around me. more often than not, the sound of goodbye between friends was deafening.
i learned a profound lesson in my most vulnerable moments. a year or two ago, i thought i was off to africa to help people. i had grandiose visions of cuddling babies, holding sick people as they died, of totally changing the small patch of africa which i was going to. i had no idea what was coming to me.
after a year of living in kenya, most of that time in a village, i felt as though i hadn't "done" much of anything. i hadn't started fantastic programs, designed projects, or even made a "sidebar" in the newspaper. i had cuddled only a few babies and held no one as they died. how did i justify my presence? what was i doing there? what was my purpose? all i seemed to do was walk around in villages and drink alot of really sweet tea.
although devastating, my last two weeks seemed to be the most profound. or maybe i was finally paying attention to the reason why i was in kenya. perhaps, i figured out, it was not for me to help kenyans, but for kenyans to help me. to help me shed my arrogant shell that i had all the answers, all the comfort, all the care and compassion that everyone needed.
my first experience of this came via my sewing machine. since i had very little time to try to dispose of my things, i decided to donate my sewing machine to a women's group in nairobi that has been very successful in training women to sew high quality products. i had been to the shop several times and was impressed with the work. so i arranged with the manager to bring by my machine one day.
i was given the opportunity to share with the women why i was donating my machine. first, they sang as i walked in the room! i was still in my week of "dehydration crying" and the moment i started speaking, i started crying. i am not even sure what i said through my bumbling. but the women all gathered around me and put their hands on my back. they took turns praying for me; i felt a soft hand rubbing my shoulders the whole time, and i slowly calmed. i felt relaxed and comforted. i felt cared for. the women i thought i was helping with a sewing machine, were helping me with deep care, concern, and prayers. i had not felt so ministered to in all my time in kenya.
my most humble and beautiful moment was in my village. i had one day to pack everything and say goodbye. only a few people knew i was leaving, none knew why. i had finished packing the things in my house and walked over to the hospital to bid farewell to the staff. i met a gentleman from the village who is well known and loved. he is "living positively", meaning he is HIV+ but open and free, doing his best to live a healthy life with a deadly virus. he has lost his wife to AIDs, and struggles to keep his children in school. in spite of all his challenges, which are more than i can imagine, he is always cheerful, loving, and although he is nearly skeletal, he has one of the strongest, hand-crushing handshakes i have ever experienced.
when he saw me, he heartily greeted me with the familiar kenyan phrase of "umepotea kwa siku mingi!! (you have been "lost" for so many days!). i greeted him back and said in swahili, "yes, and i will be "lost" for so many more days." and i could say no more. i started crying. my face contorted as i tried not to cry in front of him, but the hot tears came faster than i could control. before i could do anything more, he took me into his skinny arms and held me as i wept. i sobbed on his bony shoulder while he comforted me, assuring me that it would all be okay and that God would bless me where ever i was.
the tables turned, my heart flipped on it's head. my time in kenya ended not with me comforting kenyans, but with kenyans comforting me. i was sure i would comfort those with AIDs, but it was those with AIDs comforting me. the only audible sounds were my muffled crying and their soothing words.
the sound of goodbye. deafening.
armin van buuren
i have been back in canada for a few weeks now, adjusting to a place that is seemingly the same, yet just a little different than when i left it over a year ago. and i look seemingly the same, yet am a whole lot different.
my last couple of weeks in kenya were incredibly difficult. having to leave a place that i had so grown to love more deeply than i had realized. how to say goodbye, what to say, what not to say. but more often than not, words were not necessary. more often than not, i was sure the sound of my heart breaking would deafen all those around me. more often than not, the sound of goodbye between friends was deafening.
i learned a profound lesson in my most vulnerable moments. a year or two ago, i thought i was off to africa to help people. i had grandiose visions of cuddling babies, holding sick people as they died, of totally changing the small patch of africa which i was going to. i had no idea what was coming to me.
after a year of living in kenya, most of that time in a village, i felt as though i hadn't "done" much of anything. i hadn't started fantastic programs, designed projects, or even made a "sidebar" in the newspaper. i had cuddled only a few babies and held no one as they died. how did i justify my presence? what was i doing there? what was my purpose? all i seemed to do was walk around in villages and drink alot of really sweet tea.
although devastating, my last two weeks seemed to be the most profound. or maybe i was finally paying attention to the reason why i was in kenya. perhaps, i figured out, it was not for me to help kenyans, but for kenyans to help me. to help me shed my arrogant shell that i had all the answers, all the comfort, all the care and compassion that everyone needed.
my first experience of this came via my sewing machine. since i had very little time to try to dispose of my things, i decided to donate my sewing machine to a women's group in nairobi that has been very successful in training women to sew high quality products. i had been to the shop several times and was impressed with the work. so i arranged with the manager to bring by my machine one day.
i was given the opportunity to share with the women why i was donating my machine. first, they sang as i walked in the room! i was still in my week of "dehydration crying" and the moment i started speaking, i started crying. i am not even sure what i said through my bumbling. but the women all gathered around me and put their hands on my back. they took turns praying for me; i felt a soft hand rubbing my shoulders the whole time, and i slowly calmed. i felt relaxed and comforted. i felt cared for. the women i thought i was helping with a sewing machine, were helping me with deep care, concern, and prayers. i had not felt so ministered to in all my time in kenya.
my most humble and beautiful moment was in my village. i had one day to pack everything and say goodbye. only a few people knew i was leaving, none knew why. i had finished packing the things in my house and walked over to the hospital to bid farewell to the staff. i met a gentleman from the village who is well known and loved. he is "living positively", meaning he is HIV+ but open and free, doing his best to live a healthy life with a deadly virus. he has lost his wife to AIDs, and struggles to keep his children in school. in spite of all his challenges, which are more than i can imagine, he is always cheerful, loving, and although he is nearly skeletal, he has one of the strongest, hand-crushing handshakes i have ever experienced.
when he saw me, he heartily greeted me with the familiar kenyan phrase of "umepotea kwa siku mingi!! (you have been "lost" for so many days!). i greeted him back and said in swahili, "yes, and i will be "lost" for so many more days." and i could say no more. i started crying. my face contorted as i tried not to cry in front of him, but the hot tears came faster than i could control. before i could do anything more, he took me into his skinny arms and held me as i wept. i sobbed on his bony shoulder while he comforted me, assuring me that it would all be okay and that God would bless me where ever i was.
the tables turned, my heart flipped on it's head. my time in kenya ended not with me comforting kenyans, but with kenyans comforting me. i was sure i would comfort those with AIDs, but it was those with AIDs comforting me. the only audible sounds were my muffled crying and their soothing words.
the sound of goodbye. deafening.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
cadence
while staying in nairobi over the summer, i joined a bike club and would go riding weekly with a diverse group of people, led by kinjah - a kenyan rider/mechanic. he has started a cycling club, safari simbaz, in an effort to promote cycling in kenya, especially among the youth. he trains young boys in cycling and bicycle maintenance (thereby keeping them out of trouble as well). but it is incredibly difficult to get any decent bikes or bike parts in kenya. he normally buys used stuff that arrives in containers from europe, japan, and north america.
I am looking for a way to support him with parts, accessories (and possibly bikes), used or new, so that he can continue with this work and not go broke buying our used stuff!
i am going to put out a call for any bike enthusiasts who have quality bike parts, accesories, or connections to those who do, who want to donate them to a kenyan bike club.
leave a note or email me if you have anything or are interested in supporting cycling in kenya!
asante sana
links to kinjah's riding... (rides the cape epic in south africa every year)
http://cyclingnews.com/mtbphotos.php?id=/photos/2008/mar08/capeepic08/capeepic080/CE_Prologue_KS138
http://bike-zone.com/mtbphotos.php?id=/photos/2007/mar07/capeepic07/capeepic075/ce04297
I am looking for a way to support him with parts, accessories (and possibly bikes), used or new, so that he can continue with this work and not go broke buying our used stuff!
i am going to put out a call for any bike enthusiasts who have quality bike parts, accesories, or connections to those who do, who want to donate them to a kenyan bike club.
leave a note or email me if you have anything or are interested in supporting cycling in kenya!
asante sana
links to kinjah's riding... (rides the cape epic in south africa every year)
http://cyclingnews.com/mtbphotos.php?id=/photos/2008/mar08/capeepic08/capeepic080/CE_Prologue_KS138
http://bike-zone.com/mtbphotos.php?id=/photos/2007/mar07/capeepic07/capeepic075/ce04297
Sunday, September 07, 2008
less like scars
It's been a hard year.
But I'm climbing out of the rubble.
These lessons are hard.
Healing changes are subtle.
But every day it's...
Less like tearing more like building.
Less like captive more like willing.
Less like breakdown more like surrender.
Less like haunting more like remember.
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars and more like character.
Less like a prison more like my room.
Less like a casket more like a womb.
Less like dying more like transcending.
Less like fear, less like an ending...
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
Just a little while ago.
I couldn't feel the power or the hope.
I couldn't cope, I couldn't feel a thing.
Just a little while back.
I was desperate, broken, laid out.
Hoping you would come.
And I need you.
And I want you here.
And I feel you...
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt.
look less like scars.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
And more like character...
(lyrics by sara groves)
i have had some pretty tough times in my year here in kenya. i have had babies die in my arms after trying to resuscitate them for 5 hours. i watched a mother die of Aids and leave behind 4 children under the age of 11. i witnessed a man being beaten to death for petty theft. i coped my way through post-election violence and listened to horrific stories of torture and murder.
somehow, i have made it. but a recent event in my life has completely devastated me.
last week i was suddenly terminated from my position. i am not able to share the details with you but it was shocking, hurtful, confusing and devastating.
as the lyrics above say, "i am digging my way out of the rubble"
i am heading to tanzania at the end of this week for some R&R, to visit with a couple of friends, contemplate on the beach. i will be returning to canada sometime at the end of september. i don't know my exact plans from there. i will be seeking some re-entry counseling so that the transition goes as smoothly as it possibly can. from there, i don't know.
i don't know what else to say. i don't know what to pray. this morning in church we sang a song about casting our cares on God and allowing the Holy Spirit to come and fill us up. i started crying. i pray i can do both of those things.
i hope that i learn from this experience and grow into a better person that can continue serving God and people in whatever capacity he has planned for me.
Thank you in advance for your thoughts and prayers in this extremely difficult time.
But I'm climbing out of the rubble.
These lessons are hard.
Healing changes are subtle.
But every day it's...
Less like tearing more like building.
Less like captive more like willing.
Less like breakdown more like surrender.
Less like haunting more like remember.
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars and more like character.
Less like a prison more like my room.
Less like a casket more like a womb.
Less like dying more like transcending.
Less like fear, less like an ending...
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
Just a little while ago.
I couldn't feel the power or the hope.
I couldn't cope, I couldn't feel a thing.
Just a little while back.
I was desperate, broken, laid out.
Hoping you would come.
And I need you.
And I want you here.
And I feel you...
And I feel you here.
And you're picking up the pieces.
Forever faithful.
It seemed out of my hands a bad situation.
But you are able.
And in your hands the pain and hurt.
look less like scars.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
And in your hands the pain and hurt
look less like scars.
And more like character...
(lyrics by sara groves)
i have had some pretty tough times in my year here in kenya. i have had babies die in my arms after trying to resuscitate them for 5 hours. i watched a mother die of Aids and leave behind 4 children under the age of 11. i witnessed a man being beaten to death for petty theft. i coped my way through post-election violence and listened to horrific stories of torture and murder.
somehow, i have made it. but a recent event in my life has completely devastated me.
last week i was suddenly terminated from my position. i am not able to share the details with you but it was shocking, hurtful, confusing and devastating.
as the lyrics above say, "i am digging my way out of the rubble"
i am heading to tanzania at the end of this week for some R&R, to visit with a couple of friends, contemplate on the beach. i will be returning to canada sometime at the end of september. i don't know my exact plans from there. i will be seeking some re-entry counseling so that the transition goes as smoothly as it possibly can. from there, i don't know.
i don't know what else to say. i don't know what to pray. this morning in church we sang a song about casting our cares on God and allowing the Holy Spirit to come and fill us up. i started crying. i pray i can do both of those things.
i hope that i learn from this experience and grow into a better person that can continue serving God and people in whatever capacity he has planned for me.
Thank you in advance for your thoughts and prayers in this extremely difficult time.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
ironic
there are so many things i wish i could take photos of or describe vividly to you that make me pause. some are funny, some are tragic, all are ironic.
it is ironic when you see 3 traditional maasai women each wearing their 25-30 necklaces, earlobes drooping to their shoulders, buying their beads to make their distinctive jewelery from indians in a shop in nairobi that is so obviously dangerous that all the windows are barred and a security guard has to let you in the door.
it is ironic to look for "african" cloth in kampala, uganda only to find that the black africans are selling cheap polyester made in china and the indian africans are selling the "typical" african hand-dyed cloth made by black africans from a village.
it is ironic to see a maasai man sitting on an eldoret shopping street selling his "natural herbs" that cure all illnesses, but he is sitting on a wooden box drinking a coke and text messaging his buddies.
it is ironic that in canada, "punk rock" kids think they are ultra cool for stretching out their earlobes with plugs, while i walk behind an elderly man of 80ish whose earlobes are so stretched he has actually flipped them over the top of his ear to keep them from swaying too and fro.
it is ironic that to get a decent bike here, i had to buy it from a kenyan guy
who buys them from an indian guy who buys them from canadians, americans and europeans, who think they are no longer good enough to ride
and they are shipped to kenya to be bought back by canadians, americans and europeans
who are desperate for a bike good enough to ride in kenya.
it is ironic that the coffee mugs i bought for my friend at a local supermarket are actually Ikea mugs that were made in China.
it is ironic that although there are scores of countries to report on in africa, the national newspaper carries at least a full page on barack obama and the american election every day. i know more about the current american campaign than i ever knew about a canadian one, and i am not currently living in either of those countries.
it is ironic that in a culture that values children so much, people so easily ignore the 7 year old drug addict begging for money to buy food and fuel his glue addiction.
it is ironic when you see 3 traditional maasai women each wearing their 25-30 necklaces, earlobes drooping to their shoulders, buying their beads to make their distinctive jewelery from indians in a shop in nairobi that is so obviously dangerous that all the windows are barred and a security guard has to let you in the door.
it is ironic to look for "african" cloth in kampala, uganda only to find that the black africans are selling cheap polyester made in china and the indian africans are selling the "typical" african hand-dyed cloth made by black africans from a village.
it is ironic to see a maasai man sitting on an eldoret shopping street selling his "natural herbs" that cure all illnesses, but he is sitting on a wooden box drinking a coke and text messaging his buddies.
it is ironic that in canada, "punk rock" kids think they are ultra cool for stretching out their earlobes with plugs, while i walk behind an elderly man of 80ish whose earlobes are so stretched he has actually flipped them over the top of his ear to keep them from swaying too and fro.
it is ironic that to get a decent bike here, i had to buy it from a kenyan guy
who buys them from an indian guy who buys them from canadians, americans and europeans, who think they are no longer good enough to ride
and they are shipped to kenya to be bought back by canadians, americans and europeans
who are desperate for a bike good enough to ride in kenya.
it is ironic that the coffee mugs i bought for my friend at a local supermarket are actually Ikea mugs that were made in China.
it is ironic that although there are scores of countries to report on in africa, the national newspaper carries at least a full page on barack obama and the american election every day. i know more about the current american campaign than i ever knew about a canadian one, and i am not currently living in either of those countries.
it is ironic that in a culture that values children so much, people so easily ignore the 7 year old drug addict begging for money to buy food and fuel his glue addiction.
Friday, August 15, 2008
old skool
you know you are old when you go back to school and your brain actually hurts.
i have been going to school for the past 2 weeks and have 2 more to go. i am taking a class called "training of facilitators" for people working in community based health care. it is jam packed with information and group work (we all know how fun that can be) and i am generally pretty tired by the end of the day. let me sum up what a typical day at school looks like. (i will combine details from different days for brevity).
I am staying with my friend Amanda in her townhouse not far from the training centre. I set my alarm for 6:30 so that i can get up and turn on the water heater for the bath. the heaters here are turned on manually so as to save money on gas. i crawl back into bed for another 30 minutes hoping for some good last minute dreams. after some cornflakes, i brew some coffee and put it in my spill proof starbucks coffee mug, throw it in my backpack, jump on my bike and start praying that i don't get killed. i have to fight my way through a throng of matatus all lining up outside the path from kibera (the slum) as thousands of people are heading to work. i head to the freeway and hope i don't make any permanent pitstops at the funeral home i pass each day. i whizz through the traffic circle and hope the cars think of me as one of them. as i pass the local airport a small private airplane takes off for its safari in maasai mara. i turn into the driveway of the training centre (African Medical and Research Foundation) oddly noting that on my right, not far away is an elementary school, straight ahead is a prison, and to my left is my school. on one particular fine morning they had the prisoners in their black and white striped outfits pruning the trees. one nearly fell out of the tree when he whipped around to loudly greet me. just another day in nairobi when you're "givin high fives" to the prisoners on the way to work...
i enter the classroom and start greeting in as many mother tongue languages i can remember. one of my classmates from kartoum, sudan, has taught everyone how to say good morning in arabic. when he sweeps in the room he shouts "saba alkier!" and you hear 25 people shout back "saba alnoor!" very enthusiastically. my classmates are from all over east africa, including kenya, sudan, and somalia. there are doctors, nurses, pharmacists, and clinical officers. they work for the red cross, cdc, goal, world vision among others. the experiences and stories are rich and varied.
it was decided as a group that every day be opened with prayer. this is such a change from a north american meeting. in what "secular" place would a meeting start with prayer? the interesting thing is, is that the class is not all protestant christians. there are muslims, christians, catholics (my neighbour is a nun), and total non-believers. we have prayed in english and arabic, to Jesus and to Allah. it is always an interesting start to the day.
we usually begin with a short lecture followed by group work. i usually start heated discussions in my group and sometimes we end up talking much more about other topics than our assignment (this should come as no surprise to people who know me). yet, we always seem to come up with some of the most comprehensive presentations. one of my group members likes to say that a group that bonds produces good work. so i guess we are bonding.
tea time and lunch break continue to be living classrooms for me. i learn more cultural lessons over a steaming cup or a plate of food than in the classroom. i have learned about "alternate uses" for coca cola and lemon juice, how the prostitutes in nairobi operate, that a woman in somalia garners a lot of respect and will rarely be shot in conflict, what a guy is really saying to me when he says "i love you so much, let's talk more" (i can be so naive) and so many other interesting things that are too numerous to list.
people are also fascinated with canada and often ask me what it would be like to study there, if people would stare at them on the street, if there are africans there, how cold it is... there is rarely a dull conversation. i get alot of comments that "you talk alot. but please don't stop. it's so interesting."
the day ends with me collecting all the evaluation forms and delegating the task to one of my co-students as I was elected to be the "evaluation form coordinator." a title i can put on my resume perhaps...
i retrieve my bike from behind the guards' building and ride beside my walking classmates. they express shock that i am riding a bicycle as opposed to a motorbike or car and think i am a bit crazy for riding in the same lanes as cars, but they heartily send me off with well wishes for safety.
i pass the herds of indingenous cows that are being herded by little maasai women or young men in leather jackets. no one, including myself, thinks it is odd to see 50 cows walking down a freeway in the middle of nairobi. i push myself up the hill desperately trying to stay ahead of the old man on a one speed bicycle who seems to have an effortless cadence. once in my friends large estate i ride by the drunk car minders who reach out their hands to give me five. i slap a few of their hands, figuring it is better to keep the throng of young, drunk men on my good side. but i change my pattern of coming and going everyday so as to avoid someone easily following me. sometimes i say a small prayer as i go by the boys and men who sniff glue and literally live in the garbage pile, eating our leftovers and finding treasures in our trash.
when i glide up to my friends front gate, i get out my giant key ring and start sorting out which key opens what lock. i undo the front gate and lock it from the inside. then i go through her laundry room, unlock another door where i store my bike. i unlock the two front doors and have to be sure to lock them again behind me (i NEVER locked my door in calgary). i dump my bag by the door, turn on the computer and check email and facebook. i watch a lame movie with my friend and crawl back into bed by 10. ready for another day of prisoner greeting, cultural learning, laughing over tea, and oh yeah, a little school too...
i have been going to school for the past 2 weeks and have 2 more to go. i am taking a class called "training of facilitators" for people working in community based health care. it is jam packed with information and group work (we all know how fun that can be) and i am generally pretty tired by the end of the day. let me sum up what a typical day at school looks like. (i will combine details from different days for brevity).
I am staying with my friend Amanda in her townhouse not far from the training centre. I set my alarm for 6:30 so that i can get up and turn on the water heater for the bath. the heaters here are turned on manually so as to save money on gas. i crawl back into bed for another 30 minutes hoping for some good last minute dreams. after some cornflakes, i brew some coffee and put it in my spill proof starbucks coffee mug, throw it in my backpack, jump on my bike and start praying that i don't get killed. i have to fight my way through a throng of matatus all lining up outside the path from kibera (the slum) as thousands of people are heading to work. i head to the freeway and hope i don't make any permanent pitstops at the funeral home i pass each day. i whizz through the traffic circle and hope the cars think of me as one of them. as i pass the local airport a small private airplane takes off for its safari in maasai mara. i turn into the driveway of the training centre (African Medical and Research Foundation) oddly noting that on my right, not far away is an elementary school, straight ahead is a prison, and to my left is my school. on one particular fine morning they had the prisoners in their black and white striped outfits pruning the trees. one nearly fell out of the tree when he whipped around to loudly greet me. just another day in nairobi when you're "givin high fives" to the prisoners on the way to work...
i enter the classroom and start greeting in as many mother tongue languages i can remember. one of my classmates from kartoum, sudan, has taught everyone how to say good morning in arabic. when he sweeps in the room he shouts "saba alkier!" and you hear 25 people shout back "saba alnoor!" very enthusiastically. my classmates are from all over east africa, including kenya, sudan, and somalia. there are doctors, nurses, pharmacists, and clinical officers. they work for the red cross, cdc, goal, world vision among others. the experiences and stories are rich and varied.
it was decided as a group that every day be opened with prayer. this is such a change from a north american meeting. in what "secular" place would a meeting start with prayer? the interesting thing is, is that the class is not all protestant christians. there are muslims, christians, catholics (my neighbour is a nun), and total non-believers. we have prayed in english and arabic, to Jesus and to Allah. it is always an interesting start to the day.
we usually begin with a short lecture followed by group work. i usually start heated discussions in my group and sometimes we end up talking much more about other topics than our assignment (this should come as no surprise to people who know me). yet, we always seem to come up with some of the most comprehensive presentations. one of my group members likes to say that a group that bonds produces good work. so i guess we are bonding.
tea time and lunch break continue to be living classrooms for me. i learn more cultural lessons over a steaming cup or a plate of food than in the classroom. i have learned about "alternate uses" for coca cola and lemon juice, how the prostitutes in nairobi operate, that a woman in somalia garners a lot of respect and will rarely be shot in conflict, what a guy is really saying to me when he says "i love you so much, let's talk more" (i can be so naive) and so many other interesting things that are too numerous to list.
people are also fascinated with canada and often ask me what it would be like to study there, if people would stare at them on the street, if there are africans there, how cold it is... there is rarely a dull conversation. i get alot of comments that "you talk alot. but please don't stop. it's so interesting."
the day ends with me collecting all the evaluation forms and delegating the task to one of my co-students as I was elected to be the "evaluation form coordinator." a title i can put on my resume perhaps...
i retrieve my bike from behind the guards' building and ride beside my walking classmates. they express shock that i am riding a bicycle as opposed to a motorbike or car and think i am a bit crazy for riding in the same lanes as cars, but they heartily send me off with well wishes for safety.
i pass the herds of indingenous cows that are being herded by little maasai women or young men in leather jackets. no one, including myself, thinks it is odd to see 50 cows walking down a freeway in the middle of nairobi. i push myself up the hill desperately trying to stay ahead of the old man on a one speed bicycle who seems to have an effortless cadence. once in my friends large estate i ride by the drunk car minders who reach out their hands to give me five. i slap a few of their hands, figuring it is better to keep the throng of young, drunk men on my good side. but i change my pattern of coming and going everyday so as to avoid someone easily following me. sometimes i say a small prayer as i go by the boys and men who sniff glue and literally live in the garbage pile, eating our leftovers and finding treasures in our trash.
when i glide up to my friends front gate, i get out my giant key ring and start sorting out which key opens what lock. i undo the front gate and lock it from the inside. then i go through her laundry room, unlock another door where i store my bike. i unlock the two front doors and have to be sure to lock them again behind me (i NEVER locked my door in calgary). i dump my bag by the door, turn on the computer and check email and facebook. i watch a lame movie with my friend and crawl back into bed by 10. ready for another day of prisoner greeting, cultural learning, laughing over tea, and oh yeah, a little school too...
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
idp
idp
internally displaced person.
an acronym that all kenyans are now terribly familiar with.
alida fernhout, rn, bn, idp.
and now i feel like an idp. many people have asked if my house is fixed and i am back living in it. the answer is negative to both. i am bouncing around. there is a house but not a home. i am not able to live in my home or eldoret. i feel a little displaced.
i spent about 10 days staying at a house in eldoret town and commuted to the village on my motorbike. i then went to nairobi for a small "reading recess" and took a week long course on "hiv/aids and water, sanitation and hygiene." during that time i have stayed at my colleague's home. while in nairobi, some "things" happened and these "things" are very complicated so it is difficult to explain or discuss. but let's say that it has prevented me from going back to my home in the village. i flew on the weekend to eldoret to get some necessary things such as my bike and computer. i stayed with some dutch friends at their home.
i am now back in nairobi staying at my colleague's home until i start a month-long course on the other side of town. then i will move to a friend's house for the month of august.
needless to stay, i am living out of a bag and feel like a bit of a transient. but now i have my bike and my mac and these things are like "home" to me.
i can't give details, but if you could pray that the whole messy situation is sorted out, i would be grateful. i look foward to getting back "home" and dropping idp from the acronyms behind my name.
internally displaced person.
an acronym that all kenyans are now terribly familiar with.
alida fernhout, rn, bn, idp.
and now i feel like an idp. many people have asked if my house is fixed and i am back living in it. the answer is negative to both. i am bouncing around. there is a house but not a home. i am not able to live in my home or eldoret. i feel a little displaced.
i spent about 10 days staying at a house in eldoret town and commuted to the village on my motorbike. i then went to nairobi for a small "reading recess" and took a week long course on "hiv/aids and water, sanitation and hygiene." during that time i have stayed at my colleague's home. while in nairobi, some "things" happened and these "things" are very complicated so it is difficult to explain or discuss. but let's say that it has prevented me from going back to my home in the village. i flew on the weekend to eldoret to get some necessary things such as my bike and computer. i stayed with some dutch friends at their home.
i am now back in nairobi staying at my colleague's home until i start a month-long course on the other side of town. then i will move to a friend's house for the month of august.
needless to stay, i am living out of a bag and feel like a bit of a transient. but now i have my bike and my mac and these things are like "home" to me.
i can't give details, but if you could pray that the whole messy situation is sorted out, i would be grateful. i look foward to getting back "home" and dropping idp from the acronyms behind my name.
Monday, June 23, 2008
house on fire
well, i wasn't sure what to call this blog. so, why not be straight forward?
my house started on fire on saturday and my kitchen is toast, the rest of my house is black, and everything i own stinks like burned plastic.
but i'm okay. for now. i think.
in fact, i can see clearly how God was working in all this. now don't get me wrong. God didn't burn my house down. and i know he is all-knowing and infinite and everything and could have miracously stopped the fire, or even prevented it. and i am not happy my house burned, but i believe there is a purpose for everything. and i saw a whole lot of purposes.
let's get back to the dirt bike. because it has a part or purpose in it. i was having trouble starting it yesterday. something with it being brand new, apparently they don't like starting. my friends gardener went and found a british guy in their neighbourhood who apparently knows about motorbikes. he came over got it started and then gave me an x games lesson on how to ride a dirt bike. i learned more from him in an hour than any and all kenyan lessons combined. he took me for a freakin crazy ride - we were literally flying through giant ditches, mud, gravel, slamming on brakes. he is a little ADD but he both encouraged me and scared the daylights out of me. but good ideas on how to avoid getting pancaked by a semi truck while trying to go around herds of cows and bicycles.
so, with his advice, i went riding on the dirt roads in the farms this morning pretending to be a mini carey hart, minus flying in the air and breaking all my bones. i was riding in and out of ditches, through big crusty mud patches. pretending like i owned the place. i stopped over at the chiefs house as i hadn't been there in the 9 months i have lived in the village. we are sitting there chatting and my phone rings. i hate answering my phone while having interesting conversations, so i silenced it and kept talking. a minute later it rings again and i see that it is my colleague at the hospital. i find that strange as she never calls me on a saturday. the chief said "go ahead, answer, it's no problem." so i say, "hey esther, what's going on?"
"your house is on fire!!" she says breathlessly.
"my house is on fire!!??"
i literally leaped across the room and raced to my bike. i rode like mad back to my house. and thanks to my self-imposed x-games morning lesson, i rode with confidence and aggression. even the cows got out of the way!! (for real)
i kept watching the horizon for billowing smoke. it's hard to concentrate on pot holes when you imagine your house burning down. and i realized how selfish i was in that moment. my first thought was not of "is anyone hurt?"
but "i hope my mac isn't on fire!!"
then, "i just bought all those beads to make jewelery with the women. what are we going to make now?"
i ripped up to the house to see a small crowd but no shooting flames. okay, good sign.
i ran to the back of the house to see smoke coming out of the kitchen and people standing around saying "pole" (sorry).
the fridge and my very nice microwave are toast (yes, i do not have running water but i have a microwave. so i am a lazy cook), the kettle melted into something resembling a cake, the paint is burned off one wall.
but i cannot be more thankful.
yes, thankful. my kitchen burned, right after i had finished painting it a beautiful white and red, but i am blessed.
the doctors wife happened to walk by at a time when she was not planning to and noticed the fire. she alerted my neighbour, also the hospital maintenance guy, who happened to refuse to drive some people to town that day, feeling like he had to stay at the hospital. he is one of the only people who knew where a working fire extinguisher was and put out the fire. the fact that a fire extinguisher at the hospital worked is also a miracle!
i wasn't home and therefore not hurt. the half full gas tank standing in the middle of the fire did not blow, which would have surely leveled the house. it happened during the day and not at night when i was sleeping and may have suffered or been killed by smoke inhalation. i was prepared to ride my dirt bike like a bat out of hell because a brit happened to scare me into it the day before. and God knew what was important to me. my mac is not burned, and my coffee bodum is still standing on my kitchen counter perfectly intact, still with coffee in it. my mountain bike is covered in black soot but still waiting patiently for me to ride it. all my clothes stink like burned plastic, but i can provide income to some local women to wash everything in my house.
i also believe there is a greater purpose in all of this. i will experience personal growth, of course, in trusting that God has a plan. a couple of things have struck me. the devastation of a fire is strange. and fires were on the top of the list of damage done during post-election crisis. people's homes and properties were burned to the ground. i now have a small taste of what is like to lose something you've worked for. it was a bit traumatizing and the fire was not even deliberately set. but perhaps now, i have a sense of empathy for the victims of the recent violence that i did not have before.
it is also a way to build relationships with people in the community. you see, i have been told that people generally believe that nothing bad happens to white people. that they are all rich, they never get sick, they have no worries. i have had several experiences that have helped them see otherwise. i burned my leg quite badly earlier this year, and they had not seen a white person's flesh before. they exclaimed "it looks just like our flesh!"
a few weeks ago, i tripped and completely biffed in town. i was flying through the air, arms flapping, trying not to fall. but i skidded through the gravel and ended up with a bleeding arm and a bruised ego. people just stopped and stared. they were literally stunned, frozen. no one moved to offer a hand. when i recounted this to my colleague, she laughed and said "we don't believe white people fall. or get hurt. we believe they are perfect."
my massive tumble was a demonstration that white people can also demonstrate poor coordination:-)
my home starting on fire, and me starting to cry on arrival really demonstrated my vulnerability. as a person. as a child of God. i am not the invincible white person who has everything going for them all the time. i also suffer tragedy, i experience pain, i shed tears. and i think it might be a powerful witness and a growth in my relationship with the community. it might be a stretch but i think that potential is there.
so, i am blessed. i am blessed that i am alive. i am blessed that it was only my kitchen. i am blessed that my mac computer, my ipod, and my bodum are all intact:-) i am blessed to have the genuine concern and care of so many people. i am blessed that for this moment, i can see the positive change in an unfortunate situation. i am blessed.
see photos...
http://picasaweb.google.com/alidafernhout/HouseOnFire
p.s. from the home office: see the link to the left if you would like to make a donation to alida... (note the donation will not go directly to me, rather to my work...)
my house started on fire on saturday and my kitchen is toast, the rest of my house is black, and everything i own stinks like burned plastic.
but i'm okay. for now. i think.
in fact, i can see clearly how God was working in all this. now don't get me wrong. God didn't burn my house down. and i know he is all-knowing and infinite and everything and could have miracously stopped the fire, or even prevented it. and i am not happy my house burned, but i believe there is a purpose for everything. and i saw a whole lot of purposes.
let's get back to the dirt bike. because it has a part or purpose in it. i was having trouble starting it yesterday. something with it being brand new, apparently they don't like starting. my friends gardener went and found a british guy in their neighbourhood who apparently knows about motorbikes. he came over got it started and then gave me an x games lesson on how to ride a dirt bike. i learned more from him in an hour than any and all kenyan lessons combined. he took me for a freakin crazy ride - we were literally flying through giant ditches, mud, gravel, slamming on brakes. he is a little ADD but he both encouraged me and scared the daylights out of me. but good ideas on how to avoid getting pancaked by a semi truck while trying to go around herds of cows and bicycles.
so, with his advice, i went riding on the dirt roads in the farms this morning pretending to be a mini carey hart, minus flying in the air and breaking all my bones. i was riding in and out of ditches, through big crusty mud patches. pretending like i owned the place. i stopped over at the chiefs house as i hadn't been there in the 9 months i have lived in the village. we are sitting there chatting and my phone rings. i hate answering my phone while having interesting conversations, so i silenced it and kept talking. a minute later it rings again and i see that it is my colleague at the hospital. i find that strange as she never calls me on a saturday. the chief said "go ahead, answer, it's no problem." so i say, "hey esther, what's going on?"
"your house is on fire!!" she says breathlessly.
"my house is on fire!!??"
i literally leaped across the room and raced to my bike. i rode like mad back to my house. and thanks to my self-imposed x-games morning lesson, i rode with confidence and aggression. even the cows got out of the way!! (for real)
i kept watching the horizon for billowing smoke. it's hard to concentrate on pot holes when you imagine your house burning down. and i realized how selfish i was in that moment. my first thought was not of "is anyone hurt?"
but "i hope my mac isn't on fire!!"
then, "i just bought all those beads to make jewelery with the women. what are we going to make now?"
i ripped up to the house to see a small crowd but no shooting flames. okay, good sign.
i ran to the back of the house to see smoke coming out of the kitchen and people standing around saying "pole" (sorry).
the fridge and my very nice microwave are toast (yes, i do not have running water but i have a microwave. so i am a lazy cook), the kettle melted into something resembling a cake, the paint is burned off one wall.
but i cannot be more thankful.
yes, thankful. my kitchen burned, right after i had finished painting it a beautiful white and red, but i am blessed.
the doctors wife happened to walk by at a time when she was not planning to and noticed the fire. she alerted my neighbour, also the hospital maintenance guy, who happened to refuse to drive some people to town that day, feeling like he had to stay at the hospital. he is one of the only people who knew where a working fire extinguisher was and put out the fire. the fact that a fire extinguisher at the hospital worked is also a miracle!
i wasn't home and therefore not hurt. the half full gas tank standing in the middle of the fire did not blow, which would have surely leveled the house. it happened during the day and not at night when i was sleeping and may have suffered or been killed by smoke inhalation. i was prepared to ride my dirt bike like a bat out of hell because a brit happened to scare me into it the day before. and God knew what was important to me. my mac is not burned, and my coffee bodum is still standing on my kitchen counter perfectly intact, still with coffee in it. my mountain bike is covered in black soot but still waiting patiently for me to ride it. all my clothes stink like burned plastic, but i can provide income to some local women to wash everything in my house.
i also believe there is a greater purpose in all of this. i will experience personal growth, of course, in trusting that God has a plan. a couple of things have struck me. the devastation of a fire is strange. and fires were on the top of the list of damage done during post-election crisis. people's homes and properties were burned to the ground. i now have a small taste of what is like to lose something you've worked for. it was a bit traumatizing and the fire was not even deliberately set. but perhaps now, i have a sense of empathy for the victims of the recent violence that i did not have before.
it is also a way to build relationships with people in the community. you see, i have been told that people generally believe that nothing bad happens to white people. that they are all rich, they never get sick, they have no worries. i have had several experiences that have helped them see otherwise. i burned my leg quite badly earlier this year, and they had not seen a white person's flesh before. they exclaimed "it looks just like our flesh!"
a few weeks ago, i tripped and completely biffed in town. i was flying through the air, arms flapping, trying not to fall. but i skidded through the gravel and ended up with a bleeding arm and a bruised ego. people just stopped and stared. they were literally stunned, frozen. no one moved to offer a hand. when i recounted this to my colleague, she laughed and said "we don't believe white people fall. or get hurt. we believe they are perfect."
my massive tumble was a demonstration that white people can also demonstrate poor coordination:-)
my home starting on fire, and me starting to cry on arrival really demonstrated my vulnerability. as a person. as a child of God. i am not the invincible white person who has everything going for them all the time. i also suffer tragedy, i experience pain, i shed tears. and i think it might be a powerful witness and a growth in my relationship with the community. it might be a stretch but i think that potential is there.
so, i am blessed. i am blessed that i am alive. i am blessed that it was only my kitchen. i am blessed that my mac computer, my ipod, and my bodum are all intact:-) i am blessed to have the genuine concern and care of so many people. i am blessed that for this moment, i can see the positive change in an unfortunate situation. i am blessed.
see photos...
http://picasaweb.google.com/alidafernhout/HouseOnFire
p.s. from the home office: see the link to the left if you would like to make a donation to alida... (note the donation will not go directly to me, rather to my work...)
Thursday, June 19, 2008
motorcycle diaries - the saga continues
i have had my license for awhile now, but the motorcycle remained elusive. partly "this is kenya" partly "kenyan government bureaucracy." the phone call came from a colleague yesterday.
"we are sending it to the courier as i speak to you. you should have it by tomorrow morning."
i have learned, however cynical it seems, to believe it when i see it.
but i couldn't help but stupidly grinning during the entire 45 minute walk to the junction today. a degree of freedom has finally come!! not being stuffed with 29 other people into a minivan!!
i ran several errands in town, waiting for the supposed phone call from the courier company. while crossing a street, a large truck from the company tried to run me over. when i started crossing, the driver actually stepped forcefully on the gas and i had to leap off the road. the passengers laughed as they passed.
i never received a phone call so i finally decided to just go there and hopefully my motorbike would run out to greet me. and of course, there it was, waiting patiently.
while one worker went to check on the status of the delivery, i asked the other woman if there was a fuel station nearby where i could get fuel. she stared blankly at me (she had just finished doing a massive nose pick, maybe she went too far and nudged some brain tissue).
"no, i don't know. there's no fuel."
"do you know where the nearest fuel station is?" i asked again.
"maybe around nakumatt?" she replied.
okay, nakumatt is a grocery store about 5 km away on a street with no gas stations in sight.
perhaps it was my strange canadian accent, so i tried again. and they don't call it gas here,
they call it fuel, but pronounce it more like fuewhhel.
"you know fuel, petrol, gas, benzine. that stuff you put into cars. is there a station close by where i can buy some?"
more blank staring.
"you have to go back into town for that. i don't know."
i was literally stunned. i think she still had no idea what i was talking about.
i was then allowed near my motorbike, and so i asked the new guy.
"do you know if there is a fuel station here where i can buy fuel?"
"yes, of course, just around the corner, only 20 metres away. i will get a jerry can from the mechanic."
okay, so it was not my accent, my english, or my wording. i don't know what was wrong with that girl.
he comes back with a jerry can but doesn't hand it over until he launches into a passionate plea how he is actually a pastor and is called to do the work of God, but it doesn't pay the bills, so he has to work for the courier company, but he wants to study counseling and do i know someone who can pay for his courses?
seriously, there is something about me getting a motorbike and people asking me for money. the police man who administered the driving test also asked me to pay for his sons university education in canada!
so i head on over to the fuel/gas station with an oil container where i ask the guy to please rinse all the oil out of it. he assures me it is no problem to put oil in the gas tank. i assure him that i want to take good care of my motorbike and therefore, no oil will enter the gas tank. as he is writing my receipt and before he hands me my change he says "so, you will let me keep the change?" with a big grin.
"no, you are not keeping the change." i say with a straight face (the change is almost $4, not something like 50 cents) and head back to the courier.
by then a small crowd has gathered, the mechanics came out to ogle the bike, but they were also very helpful in showing me all kinds of nooks and crannies on the bike. like where there is a small tool kit hidden under the seat, how to remove things, which buttons to press etc. they put my side mirrors on and got everything ready to go. i was very appreciative and was ready to jump on the bike and head home when it started to rain. hard. we ran for cover and hoped it would pass in a few minutes. not 30 minutes earlier i had been sweating in the sun!
i waited, and waited, and waited. i read the newspaper, sent text messages, ate some chips. told them how their delivery truck tried to run me over. it just rained harder. i asked God what he thought he was doing. i had waited months for this motorbike and then he sends a downpour? i decided to go into town to eat and wait some more. i just couldn't bear to go home without my motorbike.
i slowly ate my coconut chicken, took photos for the people at the neighbouring table, drank some bad instant coffee and stared out the window as it continued to rain. i seriously asked God what he was doing. as if my patience was not tested enough! the problem was, there is really no dry way for me to get home except in a taxi, which costs a fortune. i could have taken a matatu to the dirt road, but then i would literally have to stand in the rain waiting for a random car to hopefully go to my village. i decided to wait some more.
i bought some groceries at the aforementioned nakumatt and emerged from the store hopeful. only a few drops! good enough for me! i headed back to the courier company. i decided to catch a cab because i was tired of walking back and forth. the driver stopped to put in half a litre of gas. yes, half a litre into a car. but with gas costing about $1.80 a litre and most people here make a fraction of a north american or european salary, i suppose that is understandable. we had an interesting conversation about why the people in his Christian church wear turbans and he asked me how it is possible that a "born again" Christian smokes because that is a grave sin that apparently negates your faith. i explained that yes, smoking is a sin, but no more a sin than gossiping, swearing, getting angry, or any other sin that any non-smoking Christian commits. so how can we judge someone else's faith in Jesus Christ because "their sin" is more evident than ours. he thanked me and said he understood my point.
finally, back with my motorbike, no rain, gas (or shall i say fuel) in the tank, ready to go. a bunch of armed police men in camouflage were standing around my bike. i asked them if they were the army or worked for the courier company. apparently, they are the army for "private hire" because they have guns and the company doesn't. i asked one guy if the guns were actually loaded and he suddenly popped out the part that holds the bullets, and well, there were alot of bullets. i jumped a bit when he popped it out (i haven't watched enough movies to know what that piece of the gun is called). they all laughed at me. six guys with loaded machine guns. i guess it is better to have them laughing at me than be angry with me... they assured me the safety catch was on and they all proceeded to show me their guns. i thanked them profusely, then was ready to go.
well, i couldn't get it going. i had to get the mechanic to start it. seems that i am so nervous that my legs are like jelly and don't have the strength to even kick start it!
by this time, it is rush hour traffic. could be okay, or i could die. rush hour traffic is not north american rush hour traffic. it is not nice and orderly. it is wazimu. crazy.
i only had to go straight down one road. but people really don't think lanes are important here, or signaling, or not overtaking when it isn't safe. throw in the pedestrians darting out of nowhere, huge trucks passing me with only a whisper inbetween us, and you have a very nervous alida. my first time riding a motorbike on a road, in rush hour traffic after a rain storm. (well, there was riding a moped in florence, italy, with no helmet, through 8 lanes of traffic... but you know i was 20 and invincible).
i make it out of town and onto the highway. the praying begins. big time.
it is amazing how complacent i have become as the passenger in a matatu. it seems normal to swerve on the road to avoid potholes and have cars driving in your lane, except they are coming at you, from the opposite direction. i don't usually blink when it happens. someone calls "chicken" and moves. however, now i am the chicken. all the time. several cars are coming straight at me and all i can think to myself is "holy sh#!? where am i going to go?" there is no shoulder, only a sharp drop off to some dirt.
i realize how vulnerable i am on a motorbike. on a bicycle, i actually feel safer. i can move easier as my bike only weighs 20 pounds instead of 200. now, i am at the mercy of the other vehicles. i can drive safely all i want, but if that car decides to overtake at the last minute... i just prayed that i would black out immediately and not feel the pain!
i finally arrived at the junction, where i now have to drive through mud.
"Come on God, all of this in one day?"
i stop and greet my fellow motorbike drivers. i get alot of handshakes, and "jepkemboi, can i please drive it, just a little ways?"
i decline and make my way through the mud. it is kind of like hydroplaning, for 4 km.
i park it in the rickety garage next to the vehicle straight out of "the gods must be crazy" and breathe a massive sigh of relief.
now i am not much of a charismatic person at heart, but i wanted to holler "Praise God!"
this is kenya.
and these are my motorcycle diaries.
now, please pray.
"we are sending it to the courier as i speak to you. you should have it by tomorrow morning."
i have learned, however cynical it seems, to believe it when i see it.
but i couldn't help but stupidly grinning during the entire 45 minute walk to the junction today. a degree of freedom has finally come!! not being stuffed with 29 other people into a minivan!!
i ran several errands in town, waiting for the supposed phone call from the courier company. while crossing a street, a large truck from the company tried to run me over. when i started crossing, the driver actually stepped forcefully on the gas and i had to leap off the road. the passengers laughed as they passed.
i never received a phone call so i finally decided to just go there and hopefully my motorbike would run out to greet me. and of course, there it was, waiting patiently.
while one worker went to check on the status of the delivery, i asked the other woman if there was a fuel station nearby where i could get fuel. she stared blankly at me (she had just finished doing a massive nose pick, maybe she went too far and nudged some brain tissue).
"no, i don't know. there's no fuel."
"do you know where the nearest fuel station is?" i asked again.
"maybe around nakumatt?" she replied.
okay, nakumatt is a grocery store about 5 km away on a street with no gas stations in sight.
perhaps it was my strange canadian accent, so i tried again. and they don't call it gas here,
they call it fuel, but pronounce it more like fuewhhel.
"you know fuel, petrol, gas, benzine. that stuff you put into cars. is there a station close by where i can buy some?"
more blank staring.
"you have to go back into town for that. i don't know."
i was literally stunned. i think she still had no idea what i was talking about.
i was then allowed near my motorbike, and so i asked the new guy.
"do you know if there is a fuel station here where i can buy fuel?"
"yes, of course, just around the corner, only 20 metres away. i will get a jerry can from the mechanic."
okay, so it was not my accent, my english, or my wording. i don't know what was wrong with that girl.
he comes back with a jerry can but doesn't hand it over until he launches into a passionate plea how he is actually a pastor and is called to do the work of God, but it doesn't pay the bills, so he has to work for the courier company, but he wants to study counseling and do i know someone who can pay for his courses?
seriously, there is something about me getting a motorbike and people asking me for money. the police man who administered the driving test also asked me to pay for his sons university education in canada!
so i head on over to the fuel/gas station with an oil container where i ask the guy to please rinse all the oil out of it. he assures me it is no problem to put oil in the gas tank. i assure him that i want to take good care of my motorbike and therefore, no oil will enter the gas tank. as he is writing my receipt and before he hands me my change he says "so, you will let me keep the change?" with a big grin.
"no, you are not keeping the change." i say with a straight face (the change is almost $4, not something like 50 cents) and head back to the courier.
by then a small crowd has gathered, the mechanics came out to ogle the bike, but they were also very helpful in showing me all kinds of nooks and crannies on the bike. like where there is a small tool kit hidden under the seat, how to remove things, which buttons to press etc. they put my side mirrors on and got everything ready to go. i was very appreciative and was ready to jump on the bike and head home when it started to rain. hard. we ran for cover and hoped it would pass in a few minutes. not 30 minutes earlier i had been sweating in the sun!
i waited, and waited, and waited. i read the newspaper, sent text messages, ate some chips. told them how their delivery truck tried to run me over. it just rained harder. i asked God what he thought he was doing. i had waited months for this motorbike and then he sends a downpour? i decided to go into town to eat and wait some more. i just couldn't bear to go home without my motorbike.
i slowly ate my coconut chicken, took photos for the people at the neighbouring table, drank some bad instant coffee and stared out the window as it continued to rain. i seriously asked God what he was doing. as if my patience was not tested enough! the problem was, there is really no dry way for me to get home except in a taxi, which costs a fortune. i could have taken a matatu to the dirt road, but then i would literally have to stand in the rain waiting for a random car to hopefully go to my village. i decided to wait some more.
i bought some groceries at the aforementioned nakumatt and emerged from the store hopeful. only a few drops! good enough for me! i headed back to the courier company. i decided to catch a cab because i was tired of walking back and forth. the driver stopped to put in half a litre of gas. yes, half a litre into a car. but with gas costing about $1.80 a litre and most people here make a fraction of a north american or european salary, i suppose that is understandable. we had an interesting conversation about why the people in his Christian church wear turbans and he asked me how it is possible that a "born again" Christian smokes because that is a grave sin that apparently negates your faith. i explained that yes, smoking is a sin, but no more a sin than gossiping, swearing, getting angry, or any other sin that any non-smoking Christian commits. so how can we judge someone else's faith in Jesus Christ because "their sin" is more evident than ours. he thanked me and said he understood my point.
finally, back with my motorbike, no rain, gas (or shall i say fuel) in the tank, ready to go. a bunch of armed police men in camouflage were standing around my bike. i asked them if they were the army or worked for the courier company. apparently, they are the army for "private hire" because they have guns and the company doesn't. i asked one guy if the guns were actually loaded and he suddenly popped out the part that holds the bullets, and well, there were alot of bullets. i jumped a bit when he popped it out (i haven't watched enough movies to know what that piece of the gun is called). they all laughed at me. six guys with loaded machine guns. i guess it is better to have them laughing at me than be angry with me... they assured me the safety catch was on and they all proceeded to show me their guns. i thanked them profusely, then was ready to go.
well, i couldn't get it going. i had to get the mechanic to start it. seems that i am so nervous that my legs are like jelly and don't have the strength to even kick start it!
by this time, it is rush hour traffic. could be okay, or i could die. rush hour traffic is not north american rush hour traffic. it is not nice and orderly. it is wazimu. crazy.
i only had to go straight down one road. but people really don't think lanes are important here, or signaling, or not overtaking when it isn't safe. throw in the pedestrians darting out of nowhere, huge trucks passing me with only a whisper inbetween us, and you have a very nervous alida. my first time riding a motorbike on a road, in rush hour traffic after a rain storm. (well, there was riding a moped in florence, italy, with no helmet, through 8 lanes of traffic... but you know i was 20 and invincible).
i make it out of town and onto the highway. the praying begins. big time.
it is amazing how complacent i have become as the passenger in a matatu. it seems normal to swerve on the road to avoid potholes and have cars driving in your lane, except they are coming at you, from the opposite direction. i don't usually blink when it happens. someone calls "chicken" and moves. however, now i am the chicken. all the time. several cars are coming straight at me and all i can think to myself is "holy sh#!? where am i going to go?" there is no shoulder, only a sharp drop off to some dirt.
i realize how vulnerable i am on a motorbike. on a bicycle, i actually feel safer. i can move easier as my bike only weighs 20 pounds instead of 200. now, i am at the mercy of the other vehicles. i can drive safely all i want, but if that car decides to overtake at the last minute... i just prayed that i would black out immediately and not feel the pain!
i finally arrived at the junction, where i now have to drive through mud.
"Come on God, all of this in one day?"
i stop and greet my fellow motorbike drivers. i get alot of handshakes, and "jepkemboi, can i please drive it, just a little ways?"
i decline and make my way through the mud. it is kind of like hydroplaning, for 4 km.
i park it in the rickety garage next to the vehicle straight out of "the gods must be crazy" and breathe a massive sigh of relief.
now i am not much of a charismatic person at heart, but i wanted to holler "Praise God!"
this is kenya.
and these are my motorcycle diaries.
now, please pray.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
work
my blogs have not been reflecting it, but i do more than go on bike rides and play with kids at IDP camps. i "go to work" everyday, although my definition of work is changing. sometimes "work" is drinking tea with people or walking on the side of a highway for an hour looking for a home of someone living with HIV.
one of the projects i have been working on is teaching a few ladies some crafts/skills so that they might hopefully earn money to feed their children and buy tea leaves and sugar. we chose 4 women, all of whom are clients of the Community Based Health Clinic. They are at very high risk of needing to engage in risky activities (i.e. brewing local beer or trading sex for food), yet they have difficulty finding employment. they all have young children in the home which restricts them from finding casual labour jobs. two of them are illiterate (although Maria proudly showed me that she can write her name and add numbers).
i have been teaching them how to cut and fold chip bags and transform them into purses and wallets. so far, they have been perfecting the folding technique; i constantly need to enforce and encourage high quality work instead of high quantity work. i have just introduced them to the cutting part. remember, what is easy for someone with years of education, is a major challenge for someone who can't read or write and has never used a ruler. i devised a pattern piece so that they can trace it onto the paper and then cut. even cutting a straight line can be a challenge some days. but i am very proud to say the women caught on extremely quickly and are proud of their accomplishments, however slowly they are coming.
three of the women concentrating very hard on the task at hand
i also invited a local businessman, who owns a souvenir shop, to come and teach them how to make beads out of magazine paper. i sent them home with a magazine, scissors, and glue. maria returned yesterday with hundreds of beads! i dipped them in varnish for a finishing touch while she cut and folded foil wrapping paper for a wallet.
Robert teaches them how to carefully cut magazines to transform into beads
the wallet on the left is one i bought in the US.
on the right is the one that Maria folded the pieces for,
and i just figured out how to sew together.
i will next teach the women how to sew the pieces together.
i have to admit, sometimes i have an inferiority complex about what i do here in kenya. while waiting for my luggage at the airport in nairobi, i once heard two ex-pat women sharing with eachother what they do for a living. the british woman, in her london accent, remarked "oh, i consult here and there for the UN, the Embassy, and other NGO's when i'm not busy with the 3 kids! you know how busy that can be! hahaha!" I was standing behind her, thinking, "Oh yeah, well I have 2 university degrees and I fold chip bags for a living! So there!"
but it struck me a few weeks ago while i was sitting around the table with the women as they diligently folded their rectangles, listening to them talk (in swahili) about their medications, which clinic they went to, how many kids they had, which pastors were doing what in which villages (not good things, by the way), that this "craft" time was also an opportunity for the women to just be women, to be mothers sharing a cup of tea while fellowshiping. they rarely get that chance "just be." maria shared with me yesterday that making the beads and folding the paper at home helps her to stay busy and keep her mind occupied and she is grateful for even that small change.
will i start the next "red" campaign here? i doubt it. i just hope to find a local market for the items that will sustain the women while they continue to develop new skills, grow in confidence and provide for their families without risking their lives or dignity. (however, we are also not opposed to an international market:-) )
the other activities i have been involved with are joining the environmental club at the local girls high school, demonstrating a simple solar oven and fireless basket (both of which I hope to develop as income generating projects for other support groups), arranging and helping with volunteer trainings, and i hope to start a community health group in june (that is if people show up, and hopefully not 3 hours late). i will act as a facilitator of the group to help them identify health problems in the area, and "steer" them towards identifying hygiene and sanitation issues (a doctor at the teaching hospital told me that 70% of pediatric admissions have to do with ameobas). a michigan group is coming to introduce water filters, so i hope to liaise with them regarding that project.
through all these things, from folding chip bags to cooking with the sun, to teaching handwashing, i hope i can contribute to the overall health of the community. not quite neurosurgery or consulting for the UN, but i know there is a bigger purpose that i haven't realized yet.
one of the projects i have been working on is teaching a few ladies some crafts/skills so that they might hopefully earn money to feed their children and buy tea leaves and sugar. we chose 4 women, all of whom are clients of the Community Based Health Clinic. They are at very high risk of needing to engage in risky activities (i.e. brewing local beer or trading sex for food), yet they have difficulty finding employment. they all have young children in the home which restricts them from finding casual labour jobs. two of them are illiterate (although Maria proudly showed me that she can write her name and add numbers).
i have been teaching them how to cut and fold chip bags and transform them into purses and wallets. so far, they have been perfecting the folding technique; i constantly need to enforce and encourage high quality work instead of high quantity work. i have just introduced them to the cutting part. remember, what is easy for someone with years of education, is a major challenge for someone who can't read or write and has never used a ruler. i devised a pattern piece so that they can trace it onto the paper and then cut. even cutting a straight line can be a challenge some days. but i am very proud to say the women caught on extremely quickly and are proud of their accomplishments, however slowly they are coming.
three of the women concentrating very hard on the task at hand
i also invited a local businessman, who owns a souvenir shop, to come and teach them how to make beads out of magazine paper. i sent them home with a magazine, scissors, and glue. maria returned yesterday with hundreds of beads! i dipped them in varnish for a finishing touch while she cut and folded foil wrapping paper for a wallet.
Robert teaches them how to carefully cut magazines to transform into beads
the wallet on the left is one i bought in the US.on the right is the one that Maria folded the pieces for,
and i just figured out how to sew together.
i will next teach the women how to sew the pieces together.
i have to admit, sometimes i have an inferiority complex about what i do here in kenya. while waiting for my luggage at the airport in nairobi, i once heard two ex-pat women sharing with eachother what they do for a living. the british woman, in her london accent, remarked "oh, i consult here and there for the UN, the Embassy, and other NGO's when i'm not busy with the 3 kids! you know how busy that can be! hahaha!" I was standing behind her, thinking, "Oh yeah, well I have 2 university degrees and I fold chip bags for a living! So there!"
but it struck me a few weeks ago while i was sitting around the table with the women as they diligently folded their rectangles, listening to them talk (in swahili) about their medications, which clinic they went to, how many kids they had, which pastors were doing what in which villages (not good things, by the way), that this "craft" time was also an opportunity for the women to just be women, to be mothers sharing a cup of tea while fellowshiping. they rarely get that chance "just be." maria shared with me yesterday that making the beads and folding the paper at home helps her to stay busy and keep her mind occupied and she is grateful for even that small change.
will i start the next "red" campaign here? i doubt it. i just hope to find a local market for the items that will sustain the women while they continue to develop new skills, grow in confidence and provide for their families without risking their lives or dignity. (however, we are also not opposed to an international market:-) )
the other activities i have been involved with are joining the environmental club at the local girls high school, demonstrating a simple solar oven and fireless basket (both of which I hope to develop as income generating projects for other support groups), arranging and helping with volunteer trainings, and i hope to start a community health group in june (that is if people show up, and hopefully not 3 hours late). i will act as a facilitator of the group to help them identify health problems in the area, and "steer" them towards identifying hygiene and sanitation issues (a doctor at the teaching hospital told me that 70% of pediatric admissions have to do with ameobas). a michigan group is coming to introduce water filters, so i hope to liaise with them regarding that project.
through all these things, from folding chip bags to cooking with the sun, to teaching handwashing, i hope i can contribute to the overall health of the community. not quite neurosurgery or consulting for the UN, but i know there is a bigger purpose that i haven't realized yet.
Monday, May 19, 2008
picture this postcard
having no vehicle, i take self-propelled adventures. i grabbed my bike today and headed out to a road i had never been before.
the purple grey clouds banked the horizon, threatening to release their moisture at any time. but with the sun at my back, i risked a shower. i passed crowds of kids just out of school, all waving and shouting "mzungu" even though they know my name.
the red road rose before me. i could not see the end of it over the horizon, and i wondered if i might fall off the edge in a few moments time. to my right, green stalks of maize were struggling out of the hard red soil. to my left, nothing planted yet. the farmer is waiting to plant his wheat. who ever it is has a huge farm and i passed nothing but soil for several kilometers.
the sound of a match striking draws my attention to the ditch. however, it is not a match but the simultaneous snap of wings of tiny black birds startled by my intrusion. they burst out of the ditch, and in formation cross my path. all at once, together, they bank to the left, flashing their orange underbellies. i am in awe at this simple gesture and the surprise of a bright hue. maybe their way of saying "hey mzungu"
i wish i had my camera as my mind's eye takes in the view. an acacia tree stands alone on the horizon in between vast fields waiting for the rains. i reach the rise in the road and drink in the normalcy of village life. modern houses stand next to mud huts, 3 children stop their digging to wave and smile. a woman carries a heavy load on her head. a child of 7 is herding over 10 cows.
delicate cranes tiptoe through the untilled field. their careful gait resembles socialite ladies walking in high heels in the thick carpet of an opera hall. their blue backs, white bellies, and black faces are a fancy costume for the simple farm they visit. their mohawk of yellow straw is halo like, or perhaps a crown of gold to match their stunning outfits and proud walk. when i stop to quietly watch them walk, they glance back at me, and as if snubbing my trousers and dirty sandals, ever so slowly take off in flight to join better company.
i turn back as the purple of the clouds is giving way to a more ominous black. i smile at the shocked faces of men as i ride my yellow, multi speed bike past their one speed "black mambas." school children who were dawdling home, are now jumping over the maize mounds to get home and disappear into the tall green grass. i love how their pink shirt collars poke out of their burgandy sweaters and their white knee socks will not stay up to their knees no matter how much coaxing they get.
i descend down the last small hill before the hospital and navigate my way over the jagged rock. it reminds me of downhill riding in whistler. my arms begin to itch with the vibrations of the rocky road. i pass the round yellow church before the hospital gate and 6 of my little friends scream "bye! bye! bye!" from the door of their mothers hair saloon. a motorcycle driver gives me a friendly nod from "one biker to another" as he parks his bike.
no camera today, but picture this postcard of plateau.
wish you were here.
the purple grey clouds banked the horizon, threatening to release their moisture at any time. but with the sun at my back, i risked a shower. i passed crowds of kids just out of school, all waving and shouting "mzungu" even though they know my name.
the red road rose before me. i could not see the end of it over the horizon, and i wondered if i might fall off the edge in a few moments time. to my right, green stalks of maize were struggling out of the hard red soil. to my left, nothing planted yet. the farmer is waiting to plant his wheat. who ever it is has a huge farm and i passed nothing but soil for several kilometers.
the sound of a match striking draws my attention to the ditch. however, it is not a match but the simultaneous snap of wings of tiny black birds startled by my intrusion. they burst out of the ditch, and in formation cross my path. all at once, together, they bank to the left, flashing their orange underbellies. i am in awe at this simple gesture and the surprise of a bright hue. maybe their way of saying "hey mzungu"
i wish i had my camera as my mind's eye takes in the view. an acacia tree stands alone on the horizon in between vast fields waiting for the rains. i reach the rise in the road and drink in the normalcy of village life. modern houses stand next to mud huts, 3 children stop their digging to wave and smile. a woman carries a heavy load on her head. a child of 7 is herding over 10 cows.
delicate cranes tiptoe through the untilled field. their careful gait resembles socialite ladies walking in high heels in the thick carpet of an opera hall. their blue backs, white bellies, and black faces are a fancy costume for the simple farm they visit. their mohawk of yellow straw is halo like, or perhaps a crown of gold to match their stunning outfits and proud walk. when i stop to quietly watch them walk, they glance back at me, and as if snubbing my trousers and dirty sandals, ever so slowly take off in flight to join better company.
i turn back as the purple of the clouds is giving way to a more ominous black. i smile at the shocked faces of men as i ride my yellow, multi speed bike past their one speed "black mambas." school children who were dawdling home, are now jumping over the maize mounds to get home and disappear into the tall green grass. i love how their pink shirt collars poke out of their burgandy sweaters and their white knee socks will not stay up to their knees no matter how much coaxing they get.
i descend down the last small hill before the hospital and navigate my way over the jagged rock. it reminds me of downhill riding in whistler. my arms begin to itch with the vibrations of the rocky road. i pass the round yellow church before the hospital gate and 6 of my little friends scream "bye! bye! bye!" from the door of their mothers hair saloon. a motorcycle driver gives me a friendly nod from "one biker to another" as he parks his bike.
no camera today, but picture this postcard of plateau.
wish you were here.
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