Video Clip August 3, 2007

A big part of our Kenya/Tanzania trip that I haven’t mentioned yet is the film crew who traveled with us, capturing footage of our experiences with the intent of making a documentary film. Before we left, they came to my house to interview me one evening. In my mental preparation for the interview, I delivered brilliantly thought-out, carefully-crafted sentences with seamless transitions. But in reality I stuttered and stammered, suddenly much more cognizant of how frequently I make use of the meaningless filler “um.” Some of their questions left me speechless. In short, it was horrifyingly humiliating.

I was clearly uncomfortable with the camera when we arrived in Nairobi. Yet every time I looked up, it seemed to be in my face. Especially when I consumed any type of food. I would jump or grimace, quickly followed by an apology. Because my very acknowledgement of the camera’s presence would ruin that particular moment.

But during that first week, each night back at the Musmark Guest House a few of us would debrief in our living area, talking late into the evening. Nate and John (the cameramen) were part of that group. And so I got to know them as they teased me incessantly about my ability to fall asleep anywhere, in a matatu moving over pot hole-ridden roads, a coach on the way to Tanzania, a ten-seater plane climbing towards the masai mara.

Something about that connection made the interviews a little easier. I spent one afternoon with the mother of Emily, the twelve-year-old girl I sponsor at Beacon of Hope. Afterwards, as I related the encounter to Nate on camera he told me that I had become a pro.

Nate scheduled my final trip interview for our final evening in Kenya. Delayed due to dinner and a team meeting, it wasn’t until around 10:30 that we finally sat down. It had already been an emotional evening with a breathtaking safari and reminiscing with the team over the highlights of the past two weeks. A long day of travel loomed ahead. I wasn’t ready to leave Kenya. And so I became unglued with the first question. I literally cried my way through the entire interview. Ken, our friend from Kyama’s church who traveled on safari with us, had to make a run for tissues.

Many times since then I’ve cringed at the memory of that interview, secretly hoping that the thirty minutes of bearing my soul to the camera lens would not make the final cut. But our talented, creative friends at Fourth Line Films thought differently when they put together a four-minute clip for our trip presentation at Chapel Hill Bible Church last Sunday. Here it is, if you’d like to check it out.

Sunset on the Masai Mara July 19, 2007

It was our second and final evening safari. The next morning we would wake early for one last visit to the mara, then rush to fit in a shower, breakfast and packing for the long journey home. The day had been overcast with an afternoon downpour. We huddled in the van, tying our hoods tight. Our eyes scanned the horizon for the slightest movement. Then suddenly, we were off as fast as we could go on the rutted, muddy roads of the mara. One of many white vans trying to make it to the finish. Which was unclear at that point, what we raced towards.

There were whispers of cheetah, one of the big five yet unseen. We stopped in a field that yielded nothing. But our driver was persistent and kept moving off road through the grass. Then we came upon them. Three magnificent male cheetahs moving menacingly around something lying in the grass. We heard a desperate cry. Then a glimpse of another cheetah. Having wandered into unfamiliar territory, she did not belong here. This was their way of telling her to move on. The situation felt tense.

Rumors of lions pushed us onward, but the road conditions in that direction were a guarantee to get stuck. Time to begin making our way back to the game lodge. We were not far when we saw a few elephants on the side of the road. One of them a tiny little thing. He had been born only the day before. Pausing, we took a few pictures and then continued on. But the elephants decided to cross the road behind us. So we stopped again, turned to the back of the van, and waited. They plodded along, lifting their enormous legs and delicately placing them down again. The terrain was uneven. I held my breath, but they neither faltered nor stumbled. Long trunks methodically grabbed the tall savannah grasses, whisking the blades into their mouths. Silently chewing, slowly one by one they reached the other side as dusk began to settle on the mara. Lifting my gaze, I caught the ball of fiery red slowly slipping from the sky. No one spoke a word.

A few tears spilled over as I took in the splendor of this extravagant display. My entire being in awe of the God who creates such beauty. The God who imagined the spots on the cheetah and the elephant’s useful trunk. The same God who cares for Mary, Eunice, Jen and Marvin, Wambui, Veronica and little Marguerite. During those final moments of daylight, I worshiped him purely for who he is, nothing else. Then darkness closed in around us. And with a start our van came to life again, a solitary white dot moving along the vast mara.

Marvin (pronounced Mar-veen) June 19, 2007

It was our first day at Beacon of Hope. 45 minutes had not allowed for bad traffic, so we missed morning devotions. Now we sat in a circle in the front room, meeting with Jane Wathome who had come to greet us. The door creaked open; heads turned. In came a little boy wearing a purple hoodie that accentuated the whites of his eyes. Sucking quietly on a lollipop, he walked right over to Jacey and climbed in her lap.

Later we would meet his mother, Jen, who is training in the sewing program at Beacon of Hope, and learn that little Marvin is two years old.

That very first day I walked to Kware, a neighboring slum, to visit one of the grandmothers. Muchario, a Beacon social worker, accompanied us. We carried bags of rice and corn flour. As we left the slum, my mind reeling with what we had just seen, Jen passed us with Marvin on her back. I waved and she smiled in return. It was a harsh connection, accepting the reality that Marvin, who we already so dearly loved, lived in that place.

Marvin seemed to always find us, wherever we would be, often staying for hours at a time. The morning I taught the three and four-year-old day care class Marvin managed to sneak in and find an empty chair. I watched the official teacher give him a suspicious glance, but she let it go. He listened to the story, looked at the pictures and sat there coloring along with the rest of the children. And no sooner had I sat down in a tiny chair to admire the creative coloring of my students, Marvin made his way across the room and climbed into my lap.

Marvin smiled and he loved to laugh, especially when tickled. But he was very quiet. We would say, “Sasa, Marvin,” which basically means “How are you?” He would respond in his tiny voice, “Fit,” (pronounced feet, with an emphasis on the t) which means “I’m well.” This exhange would repeat over and over again.

One day he cried when I had to return him to his mother because I was leaving. One of the Beacon weavers shook her head in a motherly way and said, “Marvin. He loves the wazungus (translation: white people).”

Dear little Marvin, we love you too.

A Birthday to Remember June 13, 2007

We had to leave the Lutheran guest house in Moshi at 5:45 am to make our flight in Nairobi by 2:00 pm. The 5 am alarm seemed way too early. We could hear the sounds of roosters crowing and the neighboring police academy early drills. I shared the shower with a chameleon. It didn’t feel like a good start to a birthday.

But the driver was late, allowing time for a cup of strong tea, a big breakfast and a birthday serenade. Boarding the coach, I was tempted to sleep right away, but the magnificence of Kilimanjaro held my attention. We drove through the lush land at the base of the mountain. Field upon field of maize staggered with fields of sunflowers. Trucks passing loaded high with green bananas. It’s a rich land, Tanzania.

The ride in the coach was bumpy and dusty, though the roads in Tanzania are better than in Kenya. Stuck behind a large truck every now and then, the billowing black diesel fumes engulfing us and filling our nostrils. We made good time to the border and there were no unforseen hassles at passport control, save the crowd of Masai who surrounded our coach and aggressively pushed their wares. I had to shield Emma Grace with my body while the men blocked a path so we could board.

Stuck in a jam outside Nairobi, we made it through and arrived at Wilson airport in time for our flight. The plane was a 10 seater with two pilots. Off to the Masai Mara, where we landed on a dirt runway. Upon arrival, we jumped in four vans and set out on safari. There were many wonders to be seen on the savannah with the mountains in the distance. Elephants and masai giraffe, impalas and zebra. A cape buffalo in the distance. It was breathtaking to be so close to creation, free and wild. The stripes that seem to be painted uniquely on each zebra, the wrinkly skin of the elephant methodically plodding step by step. They turned their behinds to us as if to say it was time for us to move on.

The sun would soon set; our vans turned to the game lodge neatly tucked away in the trees. A Masai warrior waited for us with a fragrant washcloth to take some of the dust off. We followed the path lined with trees to the reception area. An outdoor room with seating around an open fire greeted us. We could see the pool in the distance surrounded by lounge chairs and umbrellas. I said to Bill, “This is going to be the best birthday ever.”

I followed the flagstone path to my tent, where I found hardwood floors, a king-sized bed, a tile shower the size of my US bathroom, towels that wrapped to the floor and endless hot water. But there was only time enough to marvel. I had to meet the team for dinner.

The buffet was impressive. Soups, salads, breads, cheeses. Two types of grilled meat with special sauces. And then the hot line with traditional African and Indian dishes. There were mashed potatoes. I must have filled my plate four times. Enjoying the company of Bill, Rebecca and Jacey, between bites of lamb I noticed the noisy room quickly cleared except for our group. A procession of Kenyan waitstaff sporting kitchen utinsels as makeshift instruments began marching around my table. Placing a tall, white chef’s hat on my head, they sang Happy Birthday in Swahili. A cake saying “Happy Birthday, Jenny” appeared before me and I blew out the candles. A huge knife was placed in my hand with instruction to cut the first piece. The lead Kenyan grabbed a spoon to feed me the first bite. Much to the delight of the audience and my embarrassment, he teased me with the cake. After several attempts to bite it in vain, he finally let me eat the spoonful of cake. Emma Grace announced that the team had pitched in for a one hour Swedish massage to enjoy the next morning.

We sat by the open fire late into the evening. There were reports of a lion’s roar overheard near one of our tents, causing some excitement. But the promise of a 6:15 am safari eventually sent us off to our tents in the rain. An excessively long, hot shower washed away the dust and dirt of Tanzania and I crawled under the down comforter with four pillows, whispering my thanks in the dark and falling asleep to the night sounds of the mara.

Nairobi Day Three June 5, 2007

Today I traveled with Vicki, Barbara and John the camera man to a technical school where two of our boys are sponsored by Beacon of Hope. 19-year-old Patrick training to become an auto mechanic and Samuel, who aspires to be a tailor. We toured the facility, which was impressive, including the sewing classrooms, electrical engineering labs, computer training center and auto mechanic shop. Patrick in particular was delighted that we were there and proud to show us his classes (in front of his watching classmates) and his dorm room, which also housed five other young men. He gave us a huge grin as Vicki snapped a picture of him on his bunk and then opened his trunk to show us his belongings, including a set of bright and shiny tools. In fact, they were so clean that Vicki questioned if they had been used. But our tour guide from the school’s administration told us that the students must purchase the tools with their own money, so they take extra care of them.

Samuel is also 19, but looks to be about 12. He comes from an abusive family situation, from which he was deliberately removed and placed in this school. He is suffering from food allergies that are severely affecting his nutrition. Ruth, one of the Beacon of Hope social workers accompanying us today met with counselors at the school to work out a special menu for Samuel.

Patrick has two sisters who are weavers at Beacon of Hope. He is an “exception”–significantly older than most of the children in the sponsorship program. But Jane Wathome (founder of BOH) knows his family and has made a commitment to care for them. Patrick calls Jane his mother. He talks about the day he’ll open his own auto mechanic business.

Samuel hopes to one day design children’s clothing once he completes his training program, and was happy to show us a sampling of his sewing on the manual machine powered by his pedaling foot.

I should probably mention that the van ride to the school was about 90 minutes over broken roads through weaving traffic and dusty heat. The bench seat in the BOH van was soaked with urine of the children who had occupied that spot earlier in the morning. Which meant that by the time we arrived at the school, the seat of my pants was uncomfortably damp. And the stench was very noticable in an embarrassing kind of way.

One of school administrators (who we later found out was the grounds/maintenance supervisor) cornered Vicki and me on our way out to the van. Thinking we were ambassadors from a large organization, he awkwardly fished for a big donation to the school in a roundabout way. We awkwardly ducked out of the conversation with an impromptu trip to the bathroom where we found (yet again) the absence of toilet paper.

I’ve walked through Kware, the slum where these boys come from, and seen the conditions in which they spent their early years. I will never forget Samuel’s shy smile as he proudly showed us his ability with the sewing machine or the grin on Patrick’s face as he held up his tools for our inspection. The hope in their voices as they talked about their plans for the future.

On the trip home (which really means back to Beacon, but I accidentally kept referring to it as home all week) we saw a whole gaggle of baboons (what does one call a group of baboons?) on the road side and stopped for a cold Coke, which has never tasted so good.

Nairobi Day Two June 4, 2007

After 2 1/2 years, I’m finally here. It hasn’t quite sunk in yet. Nairobi is a beautiful city and I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent driving around. Everything is green. And the flowers are lovely. The roads are bumpy, but they have the same billboards with advertisements (only all of the models are black), the same gas stations. I even saw someone wearing a Duke t-shirt.

The Musmark guesthouse provides our accomodations. They are quite nice with three to a room. The grounds are landscaped and well-cared for. The showers are most interesting. We have a tub with no curtain and a hand-held shower head. The combination of hot and cold is complicated. But we’re clean. The food here is delicious. And the hot tea served with warm milk in the morning, well, there’s little to complain about.

Monday morning we rode in the van along the bumpy roads for 45 minutes, dusty wind coming in through the windows. And then we arrived at Beacon of Hope. It was quite surreal, the whole experience. I wanted to cry, but just stood there stunned as children flooded the courtyard. It’s as if all these pieces are finally coming together in my mind. And now, what before was only words has been replaced by pictures.

At the DMV May 21, 2007

I’m leaving for Kenya and Tanzania on June 1. This trip has been in the works for quite some time now, and I’ve had quite a long list of things to complete by departure. Each week I’ve managed to cross off one or two items. Immunizations, ordering new glasses and taking my oral typoid vaccine. Getting the international plug adapters down from their storage bin in the attic and locating my mini Mag light. But what seems to be the biggest and most dreaded item on my list has remained there from week to week. Renewing the driver’s license.

I’ll celebrate a birthday during this trip. A BIG birthday. Which also means that it’s time to renew my driver’s license. Memories of waiting in line for hours and near failure of an unanticipated sign test have held me back until now. But the thought of reentering the US with an expired license doesn’t rest well in the mind of this detail-oriented planner.

So this morning I set out during working hours (with the blessing of my boss) to a new DMV office with shorter lines and bright yellow walls. When it was my turn to check in at the front desk, the DMV officer asked to see my license. I pulled out my shiny red wallet and showed her the license behind its clear plastic window. “I need you to remove the license,” she said. I tried. But my fingers were so slippery from recently-applied lotion that the license wouldn’t budge. I asked the woman for assistance. “I’m not allowed to go through your wallet,” she said. I struggled with the license in front of a watching waiting area.

As panic began to set in along with the sinking reality that today might not be the day for a new license after all, it finally came free. I handed it to the officer. She slapped a numbered ticket on it with hardly a glance and gave it back to me. “Wait until your number’s called,” she said. I stood there in shock as it began to register that the removal of the license had been an unnecessary exercise, at least at this step in the process.

After a few minutes an automated system called me to station 3, where I smiled and warmly greeted the DMV officer who would administer my vision and sign test. She refused to meet my eyes and offered no response. I sat and waited until she asked for my license.

I sailed through the rest of the process with no criminal convictions to speak of, passing my vision test and even remembering the five-sided yellow School Crossing. Thirty minutes from entering the door, I walked out of the DMV with a glossy new license and immense relief that the last item on my Kenya list would soon have a clean black line running through it.