<iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/24269690?title=0&amp;byline=0&amp;portrait=0" width="400" height="225" frameborder="0" webkitAllowFullScreen mozallowfullscreen allowFullScreen></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/24269690%22%3Ekenya 2011</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user3292241%22%3EHannah Grimes</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com%22%3evimeo%3c/a%3E.%3C/p>

Surprise! Baby! number two

"Finally the powers on! Three days is just ridiculous." I grab my empty glass and head back to the kitchen for some more juice. The last night we had carried the t.v. over to the empty neighbours house so we could watch CSI. The things I have to suffer through over here.
I glimpse at the slightly ajar door and then turn into the kitchen of our small apartment when suddenly I jumped at a small moving mass on the floor. Frozen for a moment, my brain registers what it's looking at. And then I burst out laughing, "Ummm there's a bunch of chickens in the kitchen,"
"What?" I heard my aunt call from the sitting room.
"Yeah, there's 12 baby chickens in your kitchen."
It took us a while to heard them all out the door but finally cheapers were all back outside. Paul, our friendly, farming neighbour, seemed to have a very busy group of chickens.
"No wonder that roosters been so excited lately."

Traffic.

I cough and wipe my watering eyes as a dump truck belches a cloud of dark smoke from its muffler right where I stand. I scowel in his general direction as he speeds off in a great hurry, leaving a trail of opaque pollution. I continue on my walk trying to recompose myself and enjoy the beautiful morning. HONK! I jump pracitcally into a bush as a noisy matatu rumbles up from behind and the tote waves frantically out the side door. I shake my head with an expression that cleary said "look bud, if I wanted a ride I would have flagged YOU down! Not the other way around!!" But, taking the culture in mind, he probably thought I was commending him on spotting me. I shake the wrinkles out of my clothes and take a deep breath. I boldly take another step and think, 'I am going to enjoy this walk,' and my foot is met by a squishy pile of cow dung. I look incredulously at the Masia sitting under the closest tree watching his herd of cows wander aimlessly across the busy street. I walk away grumbling and shuffling the nice gift off my shoe when suddenly I yelp and grab my foot dancing around on the other. After plucking the 2 inch-long thorn from the sole of my shoe I decide that I had better start back home. 'It's a miserable day anyways' I think, as I walk three steps back to my drive way.

Surprise! Baby!

The day started off much like all the other days in Kenya start. I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, mused about going back to bed, had a cup of coffee then settled down in my rocking chair. I was planning on meeting Janice at the Thogotto junction and then walking up to the Kikuyu hospital where we would then meet Rebecca and William and discuss William’s case. And as I sat rocking in my chair with cup of coffee in hand my mind failed to foresee how drastically my day was about to change. The cellphone buzzed on the table beside me indicating a text message. It was Janice telling me that she had had a rough night and would be a little late. I sighed; late can mean anything from an hour to a week with these people. 2 hours later I watch the very pregnant Janice walked slowly towards the fruit stand where I was waiting. I knew right away that something was very wrong with her. Usually she has her huge characteristic smile with a witty phrase waiting on her lips when she first meets me. Today she was holding her belly and looking quite sombre. Then the next warning sign, she wanted to take a matatu to the hospital. Usually Janice says something like “It’s only a short distance, we should walk,” even if it’s six miles. I started inquiring about Janice’s pains and she told me that it was her lower abdominal. The baby wasn’t due for another month so we decided that it would be a good idea for a check-up once we got to the hospital. I asked her when the pain started. Then, after she told me that they had started last evening, I asked her if she had felt the baby kick since then. My heart sank as she said no, it had not. My mind frantically went into panic mode as it tried to prepare itself for handling a mother with a miscarriage.

When we arrived at the hospital Janice was in real pain and was doubling over every few minutes. I’ll fast forward a few details to the part where we finally got into the ultra sound room and, miracles of miracles, they found a teeny tiny heartbeat. About an hour later we were back outside sitting on a curb pondering what to do next. “Janice, I think you’re going to have a baby.” “No, I just need some pain medication. Then I’ll go home and rest.” I’ll fast forward a little more to the part where we were taking a taxi to a different hospital. My hand was buried deep inside the crushing fist of a labouring mother. “So why are we going to this hospital?” “Because I’ll lose my job if we go back to the Kikuyu hospital since I bypassed the system,” said Evelyn, an employee of Kikuyu hospital and good friend. Fast forward again, Evelyn is shaking my hand and telling me she must go back to work. The doctor comes out from examining Janice and says “Yep, the baby will come around three o’clock.” I chuckled. It sounded as if he was talking about delivering a baby.

Fast forward. I’m holding Janice’s hand and rubbing her back as she lays on a hospital bed in a pink gown. “Did you call anyone yet?” “Yes, but they won’t be her until later.” She moans and my fingers crack painfully. Then she starts to heave and I reach for the bucket for her to puke in. Some splashes onto my shirt.

Fast forward. I stagger wide eyed into the waiting room to meet Hannah and Lois who had been writing at a coffee shop when I called for them. I jabber out some strange un-thought answers to their questions. Hannah follows eagerly after me into the pre-labour ward. My aunt had suggested that we ask to suit up and go in with Janice while she delivers. His answer is a friendly “yes” and then we’re quickly ushering Janice into the labour ward. “spread this for me!” says the doctor handing me a sheet and I ran ahead spreading it on the bed where, in mere minutes, human life would splash upon.

Fast forward. Hannah is staggering out of the room and then collides with the door jamb weak kneed. The Doctor pulls his fingers from Janice (too much information) and rushes to catch Hannah as well as the one and only nurse present. I follow so that the doctor can go back to attend the moaning Janice who is in mid-contraction. “Doctor, come back to meeee!” I laugh about it now haha

Hannah was a trooper, after getting some air she managed to come back in time for the crowning. I witnessed the whole thing directly. The slimy little creature came sliding out into the gloves of the doctor and had a healthy first breath and cry. Then the blue cord was snipped and a few minutes later out came the placenta. The baby was beautiful: open eyed, of natural colour and truly looked intelligent rather than those new borns you see that are shrivelled and squirming, horrified that they have gone through some kind of invasive exodus into a less squishy and warm world.

I wander out of the hospital sporting stains of sweat, vomit and embryonic fluid satisfied and amazed. How can such a treacherous, nasty process seem so beautiful? I suppose the doe-eyed little baby laying in the make-shift incubator helps a little. The ruggedness of the small Kenyan hospital and the casualness of the doctor and nurse seemed to make the whole situation even more wonderful.

Kimberly is thriving and adorable, gaining weight and eating normally. We are hoping that since we were the first faces that Kimberly saw upon her arrival, she won't be terrified of white people when she's older.

The Mendazi Party

Mama Joy dumped some self rising flour into a plastic bowl in the small kitchen. Our party members were an interesting group: three mothers whom I had gotten to know from the creche, a bundle of their toddlers, Janice's (one of the mothers and owner of the house we had gathered in) temporarily adopted daughter Margarette and me.
"So what ingredients do you need to make mendazi?" I asked Mama Joy holding my camera up to catch her response. It was really quite simple. Flour, warm water, a pinch of sugar and whatever else you could afford at the time. Sometimes milk, sometimes eggs and- if you're really doing well- chocolate or lemon. I call them the poor man's doughnut.
After mixing the flour and warm water- each measured out by instinct- Mama Steven tasted some dough, spitting it out satisfied. It was time to fry them up. Out side the modest wood house, Mama Steven had started a three stone fire. The technique where you find three large stones, roughly the same size, and arrange them in a circle lighting a fire in the middle. Then the pot of oil sits on top of the stones. It's simple genious.
As the oil heats up to a boil Mama Joy kneeds a chunk of dough expertly into a ball. She then coats her work table with a bit of flour and rolls it out into a thin circle. Cutting it grid like the peices are ready to be fried. I give it a whirl and find that it is not quiet as easy as it seems. They chuckle at my oblonged dough shapes.
The dough makes about 60 Mendazi, maybe even more. I am astounded. No wonder the African ladies get a little chunky over here; 60 mendazis for under 3 dollars! I eat over 10 of the delicious little morsels and I don't regret it, they were amazing! Now that's the kind of party that I would never miss.
As I sat around the three stone fire the four toddlers wandered around with peices of mendazi on their faces and hands. After a while Janice put some tea on and we talked and laughed until almost dark.
"Janice, are we still taking motorbikes home? It's almost dark!" Half an hour later I sit smooshed between Janice's pregnant belly and the motorbike driver zipping down a pitch black dirt road towards the small town of Kikuyu. I could not stop smiling for the entire ride, even as my head bonked against the helmet of the driver after he hit every pothole in the road. Funny he should have a helmet and not the passengers. The thought lasted only a moment, no place for caution in a moment of pure reckless spontanueity.
After connecting with two more matutus, once with Mama Joy's toddler wedged comfortably on my lap, I walked through the doors of our campus apartment to be met by a worried looking aunt. I chuckled nervously as I tried to explain myself and eventually regained her confidence. Well, at least I think I did.
The party was wonderful and I shall bring back my new acquired skill to Canada where many more mendazi parties will ensue.

 

This is little Natashia, very adorable and, as an added treat, she wasn't even afraid of me even though I was the first whitey she'd ever seen.

The Farthest Village

I stagger out of the small truck with nothing much on my mind since the heat had rendered it useless. Smacking my dry lips I reached into my bag for some water. Sweat. Every where coming from every pore. I wiped my sweaty forhead with my sweaty hand and then stared around the village trying to take some of it in. Straw house, children, sand, tree, sand. A man who worked at the dispensery in the village placed out two chairs for us, and although I had been sitting for more than four hours already, I stared longingly at the plastic chair. Finally I wandered away from the group and sat gingerly on the the ledge to make it look less lame that I was sitting. And then I slouched a bit, and a bit more until I was splayed on the chair. Glamour and disposure were far from my mind in this dusty, humid, little village. Hannah, a few yards off, was recording some little kids jumping at a mango tree and then falling over. It was cute, they were both filthy and wearing only pants. The one little boy's pants were so ripped that they concealed nothing at all. After a while some of the village guys wandered over to see the white people that a driven all the distance to see them. They were being sponsered by Hannah's church and so naturally there was pictures and conversation and laughter. I sat complacently. And then they wanted to give us a tour around the village. I groaned inwardly at the thought of walking, even standing! Here I was in a village that not many people in the Western world will ever get to see and I am groaning on a faded, flimsy lawn chair.
Forty minutes later I sit heart racing in the truck bumping along the road. Why the change in mood? Well it could have something to do with the long walk through unmanaged field or hearing the story about the man who's head was almost chopped off by his brother and law. Or because there is a giant black and white spider crawling on me and three people are trying to find it and remove it in the back of the cramped pick-up truck.
Despite my buzz killing mood and dramatic re-accountment of the day it was actually spectacular. Being exposed to such contrast from my own culture was life changing and memorable. I shall never forget it.

Donkeys, Camels and Other Modes of Transport

Donkey
"Noooo, I don't want to!" I looked up from my Glamour magezine and glanced at Hannah on the other bed in our tiny hotel.
"Hannah, it's our last night. We are not going to go to bed at eight o'clock." She groaned but eventually was persauded and 15 minutes later we set off for our moonlight donkey ride. It was fantasy like; plodding over moon lit dunes through tiny villiages of straw houses. I felt like an Arabian princess.
Camel
"Should be here soon," said Jamal as we lay under the shade of a boat house on the shore of the brilliant blue Indian Ocean.
"Ah, there they come," I nodded to the far end where two proud camels bobbed steadily towards our direction. We bartered over the price for a few moments and then watched the two beach boys, who were to be our guides, assemble the sadles. Two long sticks criss-crossed in the front-handles of sorts- then layers of middle east looking blankets for a cushion. I hiked up my pants then lept fearlessly onto the hump. Holding tight to the sticks I readied myself for the beast to arise. It was an experience like no other: I was lurched backwards 90 degrees, then shot forward perpendicular to the ground then finally leveled out. Smiling I looked across to Hannah to see if she had been as over joyed with the experience as I. Snapping photos and giggling we rode off into the horizon...
Other Modes
The Black Pearl was a majestic boat. Its planks were clean and well varnished and canopy blocked the beating sun rays from damaging our delicate skin. The company wasn't bad either, three young beach boys and three more waiting on Shella beach for our arrival. My favourite stood with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a massive afro dyed blonde. His shirt read "beach boy" and he splashed into the water to help us out of the boat. I smiled as I thought one Black Pearl and six Jack Sparrows.

Back to Never Never Land

Lamu welcomed me back like children do to the icecream truck. The sun shone bright and the waves rocked our little boat lovingly. I stared out towards the strange little island as we approached with feelings I still cannot pair with words. My companion this time around was far different from the group of 20 last time. I became a little nastalgic as we carted our luggage up the steps of the Sunsail, our humble home for the next three nights.
The next morning- after a rather muggy, stuffy, uncomfortable sleep- we woke early and headed to the main land where we would spend much of the day villiage hopping. Now when I say villiage I mean those remote, thatched roofed, naked children, hungry looking, national geographic villiages that one always pictures when someone says the word "Africa." I had really started thinking that they were just some silly made up thing after living in the glam of Nairobi for so long. But there we were, piled 17 high in a small pick up traveling down a dirt road in- what felt like and could have been- 40 degrees. My long, culturally appropriate dress stuck to my thighs, drenched in sweat, and I sat nervously in the seat behind our body guard, watching the barrel of his gun point menacingly at my head as it bounced and bumped along with the potholes in the road. Hopefully not loaded.
To be continued...

The Typical, Wonderful Evening

Its about seven o'clock and we sit contently around the living room reading books or watching the news, enjoying each other but each absorbed in our own activities. Hannah is maybe editing an interview or picture, Uncle Mark is perhaps cheering at a goal Chelsea made, Aunt Lois is sipping a glass of lemon tea and reading a book. I am sitting in my rocking chair observing or typing or becoming frusterated at calculus. Suddenly we will hear the screeching of breaks, a thump and a whomp. We will all raise our heads, chuckle then go back to the activities we were enthrolled in. The speed bump just out side the gate gaurding our little compound never fails to bring us together in the evening.

Nightmare on Dagoretti Street

The day started out rather bland to be honest. I had no idea how deeply disturbing my day was about to become. I had decided that today I would devote my time prepping the Creche (a small day care like setup for the orphaned or completely destitute children under the age of 3) for reopening. Nicole having left along with the ladies I had become the last whitey. It felt weird blending into a crowd in comparison to being the main attraction but also kind of nice. I stood silent watching the group of Kenyan mothers work tirelessly for their children. Once the creche reopened they would have a safe place to leave the children they either adopted from a dead friend/neighbor, or were left with after their husbands split. This would mean that they could find work and make money to create oppertunity and feed the futurless tots. I smiled at how they still managed to laugh and sing even in their completely depressing situation. The current activity was painting the walls with a safer, not lead-based paint. The turn out was great; 14 women (each with a child or two stapped to their back or running ramped) but only two paint brushes. 
"Is there a hardware shop close by?" I asked Mama Joy after observing the mulling around of those with no tool to paint. Now, my mistake was that the Keyan "close by" and the Canadian "close by" differ from about 10km. The creche is situated on the precipice of a valley over looking  beautiful farm land rich with banana and mango trees. Around the area are small shops selling goods and, what I was wishfully guessing, paint brushes. 5km South of the creche, however, in the bottom of the valley lays the scourge of the Earth; Dagoretti.
"Yes, yes! Irene and Mama Steven will take you," It took me about to seconds to realize that we weren't going to a quant little shop on top of the valley as we stepped onto the rocky, sloping trail into the bowels of imminent filth.
 20 minutes later the view of Dagoretti came into veiw and I found myself relaxing a little; big yellow umbrellas were set up and a hustling, bustling crowd clothed in white outfits gave off a friendly glow.
Huh, not at all as ominous as I had thought it would be. I had never actually ventured to the backside of Dagoretti as I had only had to encounter the front portion where the transportation dropped me. Perhaps, like most things in life, it appears rough on the outside but is a really friendly wonderful place on the inside! And here I will find a diamond in the rough of sorts! Optimism raced almost histarically through my mind. A useless poison. Stench assulted my nostrils as we marched closer and closer towards the streaming crowd dressed in cheerful white. And then my mind froze and my stomach lurched. I gulped back the urge to vomit. My reeling mind revolted the images my eyes absorbed. The stunning robes of white each wore bright crimson splashes of freshly shed blood. I opened and closed my eyes, tipped back my head and swallowed hard again.
"Ahh, market day." Said Mama Steven. I slowly came out of my shock. The slaughter house. I knew it was back here I just never thought how apparently here it was.
And then, in a daze, I followed my indifferent, calloused companions in the midst of the creatures covered in blood soaked garments carrying plastic grocery bags full of fresh, bloody meat. A man wearing a white, blood soaked hat and a torn bloody coat locked eyes on my white skin and smiled a toothless smile at me...
The rest of the story will be published in Steven King's newest book. Look for it in bookstores today.
An hour later I was back sitting amongst the adorable babies handing out mendazi to the kids and paint brushes to the mothers. I sighed and laughed at the experience to myself. It was good to see, however disturbing it was; the West hides this so extremely well. Meat is just tasty, nicely packaged morsles but the reality is, somewhere there's a factory full of blood drenched workers knee deep in what PETA calls murder haha Never have I been so stongly locked into a conviction as the one I had made not to eat meat. I dislike the idea but am, in a way perverted to that of my minds innate instinct, glad of the production. It is the employment source of many other wise jobless and starving Kenyans.

Lamu: Part Two

We had decided that we would go back on the boat for our second day at Lamu and try our hand at deep sea fishing. The Douglas's seem to carry around a curse of bad luck when it comes to fishing. Perhaps a long deceased ancestor upset Davey Jones and was sentenced to have offspring with pitiful fishing skills for eternity. Never-the-less I decided that I will not be punished for the sins of the past and set out determined. 
And so we begin our adventure, sailing in the Imani; the most faithful, slightly leaky, Rasta boat to have ever sailed on the Indian Ocean. It took a while to get far enough into the open sea for good fishing and although the gentle waves were lulling me into a state nastalgia it seemed to have a less enjoyable effect on some of the other passengers. Unenjoyable for both the passenger and the spectator. Finally we made the first stop and the fishing lines were issued. The term "fishing rods" would not be appropriate as the square plank of wood inwhich the fishing line was wrapped around could not have been classified as a rod. The sinker was a rusty peice of rebar and the bait was just a plain old chunk of squid not desguised by any kind of fancy schmansy lure or shiny metal twirlers. I felt the curse of Davey Jones weigh heavey upon my shoulders; I would never outsmart Neptune's creatures with this kind of archaic madness! I sighed as Captain Dolphin shook his head and started the motor to search out a better spot. The beginning of a long fruitless day no doubt.
With the motor cut and the boat slowing, Toothless (a name I had developed for rasta helper who was missing a tooth) cast my line for me and then handed it over. Do I even bother trying to find the technique for fishing with a plank of wood? My skeptical thought was cut short by my mother's shrill shriek of excitement, "I caught something! I caught something! Ahh ahhhhhh! AHHHHH!" Seems the curse is on my father's side. As the dark figure attached to her line loomed closer to the surface the boat tipped to the right in response the onslaught of ecited passengers coming to witness the ascent of the first catch. And then there it was. An octopus. In my ecitement I reached out to touch the wealthy limbed creature but at that moment it freed itself from the line and escaped into the blue. Cruse my cursed hand! It seemed all for the better though as Toothless began acting out what would have happened had I managed to catch the beast with my bare hands. He didn't have to know English to explain that the octopus would have malled me. But from the moment that my mother had had that first lucky nibble the Imani had seemed to transform into some sort of fish magnet. Toothless would throw down a line, tug at it for only a brief moment and then reel up a fish. I was shocked. Who knew that in trying to maximize the catch potential by covering our equipment with shiny lures and buying the newest light weight rods we were actually drowning the delicate art of fishing with over modernization. I shall never touch a rod, nor lure, again. And, miracles of miracles, I was able to reel up a fish. After Toothless had made sure it was tightly attached to my line of course. I laugh at Davey Jones and his curse!
A few hours later we arrived to the shore of Manda beach with a bag full of freshly caught fish and a few bright, red sunburns to prove our days work. The rastas disappeared somewhere on the beach and left us to swim in the warm water of the Indian Ocean. We then took our places underneath a thatched roof of a small tiki shade house and awaited our lunch. We were served generous portions of coconut rice, stewed vegetables, fish (yes, the fish that we had caught) and fruit. I don't know what was more wonderfully novel; being served food by men, cooked by men or the absolute deliciousness of the "from scratch" dishes.

Lamu: Part One

The rainy season, one would think, covers more than one city. This was my logic as I threw my black pants on and wonderfully warm, purple sweater on the coolish, rainy morning we left for Lamu. The plane ride was less than eventful. The steward was a mousey looking Latino that the ladies had fun giggling about and secretly snapping pictures of. I don't know how you take a secret photo on a plane that only sits 20 women but it was amusing non the less.
So as the plane rose into the chilly rain clouds and began it's journey to Malindi I dozed off after a dozen or so head bobs. When I awoke (from a flash of someone trying to catch the unattractive sleep pose) I noticed that the lush land of Nairobi had turned into a scorched, desert of dying and thirsty trees. I unzipped my sweater slinging it over my bag feeling twinge angst at my weather judgment.
We landed on the mainland and the first thing I noticed was the heat and the clear absence of rain. The next was the cats. A whole line of them were laying in the sun of the duty free shop that met us outside the exit of the tiny airport. One was nestling in a cracker box and another was on the front counter displayed beside the softdrinks. I looked around rather unimpressed as the heat was making any emotion to much work including amazment. "Excuse me, excuse me" I jumped out of the way as a man pulling a donkey cart came flying in to collect the bags. I trudged along behind sulking about the heat making my jeans stick to my legs and the heavy bags I had criss crossed over my shoulders. A gaggle of girls trailed along as well with cameras and giggles. I frowned at them and wiped my forhead. Everything is annoying when your hot and sweaty
                                                                             ...
Two hours later I sat reclined in a lovely chair with a glass of passion fruit juice in my hand and a beautiful view of the Indian Ocean layed out before me. The world is beautiful place when the ocean is present and the sweat glands of the body can breathe
                                                                              ...
That evening I stepped onto the deck of a cosy sail boat with all my mothers and prepared for a sunset cruise. The boat leaked a little and the captain was a 26 year old rastafarian. I knew right away that there would be no pesty life jackets handed out or no annoying wavers to sign and so I hoped up on to the side of boat and leaned over the edge hanging off the frayed rope holding the sail down. The sunset was breath taking; a giant orange bubble melting like butter into the horizon and from that moment I was in love with Lamu.

Mystery Meat In a Dung Hut

Bumping along a dusty, crumbling road with the window rolled down I sit in the front seat of Mama Martha's old boat. In the back sits Nicole and Elizabeth, a Maasai nurse from Martha's clinic. The trunk of the car is stocked with biscuits, water, juice and bread for the our visit to Maasailand and as we drive into the heart of the Ngong mountains I can feel the familiar excitement I get just before an adventure. The car turns around a sharp bend and then suddenly the horizon explodes into a magnificent display of mountains like I've never seen. Nicole is gasping in the back seat making me smile, I turn around to catch her expression and watch her snap endless shots out the open window. Mama Martha is pleased with our amazement and she begins to preach about God's glory and love in her beautiful African, motherly way. Cows crowd the road at points and the Maasai shepherds can be seen sitting underneath the scraggly trees scattered around the dry earth. Martha zooms along the roads dodging the potholes as they appear and Nicole and I stare contently out the window. Suddenly Martha takes a sharp turn right into the shoulder of the road and, feeling a little shocked at the erratic off roading, I hear Nicole question whether or not this is even a road. Mama Martha laughs and says yes, it is a road. The dirt path takes us to a quaint, little village and in the distance I see children standing under the shade of one of those magnificent trees that one always imagines when thinking of Africa.We pull the car underneath another, similar tree a short distance away and park in a cloud of dust. Moments later I am sitting in a lawn chair and being introduced to the members of the tribe. Our translators name is James and he looks to be of about 17 years of age. His father, he tells us, had 8 wives and 62 children. He is the youngest and the only one that has gone to high school. We smile and congratulate him as I inwardly am starring opened mouth. 62 children is a lot of children, it was like listening to a bible story or some other ancient tale that is too old to really comprehend but there you have it. The women were beautiful, wearing layers of colourful clothe strewn elegantly over their skinny arms and backs. Theirs ears, as was tradition, were decorated with beads. The lobes of the older ones ears had been punctured with a knife and then stretched out to an impressing length. The larger the lobe the more experience the women had. Mama Martha was launching into another powerful sermon telling them that their children were equal to all the children of the world and they deserved education just like every other child. She then looked over to me indicating that it was my turn to stand and preach. I swallowed nervously eyeing the tribe elder that had just joined us. I stood and started preaching, stopping after every sentence so that James could translate for me. They seemed to enjoy it any ways. My age is cancelled out by my colour and they drink every word I speak and then clap for me when I finish. It was simply invigorating! I feel like a true missionary now that I've preached to a remote African tribe but at the same time humbled because they, in many senses, are so much more in tune and in love with God then I. Next, after handing out food to the adorable children and listening to them sing to us, we headed over to the dung huts to my great, great pleasure. How many times have I envisioned myself sitting in a dung hut and now I am passing through the threshold of one! We sit on wooden benches and I run my hand on the wall of the hut. Its very dark inside and quite a few degrees cooler. James explains that the dung/mud mixture is both a shield from the sun and a water proof seal. Its hard to see but Martha points to the side and says that there is a kitchen in that area. Two Maasai figures hand out a meal containing some chipotle and potato meat mash. This was the challenge that I had been destined to face since my arrival. The mystery meat. In the dim light I push the lumps around with an old tin spoon. Lump by lump I slowly masticate and, tilting my head back with closed eyes, I try to keep what had already been swallowed down...
The entire day was amazing and spiritually rejuvenating. From the sites to the company to the tribal education I received, I shall never forget any of it. In fact, now that I have the low down on how to make those huts I think I'll be ordering a load of cow dung upon my return.

Five people live in this dung hut

A Real African Experience

So Antony, a teacher at Compass Foundation sent an email to me a few days ago asking if I would go over to his house for supper to meet his wife, Jane, and " spiritual" son, Daniel (a kid that Antony had taken under wing. Daniel is about 19 and lives in a very poor region of Nairobi). And so I emailed Antony back and affirming that Nicole and I would definitely like to go.We had decided on Tuesday so that se could work for the day at compass and then walk home with Antony after school. The first activity of the day, we had decided, was to teach the class without a teacher an English lesson. So we spent the morning in the staff room preparing our lesson. I was tracing a body on a large sheet of paper and making lables for the kids to place onto the body and Nicole was making a list of nouns, adjectives, verbs and adverbs. Our minds were filled with visions of cute, little, well behaved children waiting with baited breath to catch our every word. The term "wishful thinking" has never been more appropriately used. It turns out that us mzungus, the term for white people, were more of a novelty toy than a object of respect. Of course it didn't help that the class without a teacher that day happened to be the pre-unit class (equivalent to sk). The children were quite literally hanging off the ceiling, boucing off the thin plywood walls and screaming to the best of their ability and all the while Nicole and I were "teaching" our lesson. Thankfully the clouds had taken on a threatening look and so school was ended early so that the children could get a head start home before the rain hit. At 2:30 we were walking down the dirt road laughing about the day and chattering about African rains and then suddenly, about two steps down the back road, it began to pour huge droplets of rain. Nicole and I were all set to continue on since that morning we had purchased "gum boots" (the Kenyan rubber boot) and were eager to splash through the muddy puddles Antony assured us the best idea was to take the Mutatu since it was about a 20 minute walk. The Mutatu was crowded and steamy in the humid atmosphere that the rain had created and Nicole was half sitting on my lap. Everynow and then I would catch a glimpse out of the window between the many heads blocking my view and the foggy window and see gushing, red rivers flowing out of the ditches right across the road. It was wonderful and a complete new experience! Soon the road had become to conjested to move and so the three of us squeezed out of the van and began trekking through the sheets of rain happily. The area of town was just a wee bit sketchy and, if the circumstances had been different, I would have felt uneasy because we were the only white people for miles so naturally we attracted alot of attention. The rain was our gaurd, however, ushering all of the locals under tin roofs and creating numerous rushing rivers between us and any of the potential dangers. We were laughing and carrying on as if we had never seen rain before (and indeed, we had never seen rain like THIS before) it must have been quite a sight. Once inside Antony's quaint little house we were served popcorn and ground nuts (peanuts) while awaiting the return of his wife and Daniel. They arrived a little while later and Jane went into the kitchen to prepare our traditional Kenyan meal leaving Antony, Daniel, Nicole and I to chat about Canada, snow, rain, sports and just about everything else. It was extremely enjoyable and they even gave us our very own African names which every true Kenyan has. Mine is Nyambura which means, quite appropriatly, child of the rain. The meal was just as it promised to be, different. We ate with our hands (to Antony, Jane and Daniel's great enjoyment, we were down right horrible at it) which created a great mess and my foggy glasses were still stored in Nicole's purse and so I was not quite sure of what I was putting into my mouth at times. The meal consisted of ugali (like a thick, creamy porridge that has been left for a day in the pot and turned into a thick clump) and sukumuwiki (spinach, except much tastier) mixed with a very tough meat that they claimed was pork chops. Whatever it really was it was like chewing on a shoe that had bones and fat attached to it and I seemed to get all the bones. And the ex-vegetarians stomach turned as she politely nibbled... But I was saved by the bell, hands covered in juicy spinach my cell phone rang. It was my aunt Lois proclaiming that she had not been thinking earlier, she would have to come very soon to pick us up because driving in the dark at Dagaretti (the small area's name) when you are white is not a smart idea. So we hopped onto a mutatu with Danial and Antony and headed out to meet my worried aunt. When we met her at the pre-determined junction we jogged quickly racing the darkness. It was slow going, the roads were narrow and for some reason a place of night life fellowship, crowds of people were engulphing the car and at one point we were going so slow that a guy in a wheel chair passed us hahah but, we got home safely and the evening was so much fun, I shall remember it forever.

The Cake Day

When Anastasia, the head mistress of Compass Foundation, was explaining different things about the school to us, she came to the kitchen where she picked up these little tin bowls shaped as hearts. She told us that they used to bake cakes for the children before they ran out of funding for the ingredients. So now the children get one very conservative scoop of beans and maiz a day which, for some of them, is all they may recieve until the next day. I just couldn't get my mind off these cakes and before we left I made sure to ask Anastasia for the ingredients. I had decided that I wanted to bring back the cakes, even if for just one day as a special treat and all the ingredients came to under fifteen dollars in which Nicole and I split. It's amazing, you can literally feed an army of children for fifteen bucks. When I had envisioned the children feasting on the delicious little cakes I never really thought of the preperation and who would do the brunt of the work. Turns out that we were. And the conditions? Well lets just say they were like nothing you'ld ever find in Canada. The kitchen is the most backward and shack-like thing you can imagine. Constructed with a tin roof and walls held together with a basic wood frame and one window (and not a window with glass haha heavens no! I guess it's more of a square hole with planks of wood on hinges if one so desired to close the window) cut jaggedly into the tin wall. Theres also a point of entry (a larger hole) but other than that there is no ventilation. The kitchen contains: a double burner stove, a fire heated oven, three wooden tables for food prep and counter space (one on each wall, except for the wall with the stove and oven, which left a considerably small amount of walking space) and a small closest filled with broken cleaning tools and mismatched dishes etc. The first thing to do was get the fire started for the oven and stove so each was loaded up with long pieces of fire wood and the burning limbs hung rather dangerously out of the small fire compartments of the stove and oven. All the while the kitchen filled up with the vast amount of smoke produced from the fire. At first this was unmanageable, my eyes would tear up and my throat would burn to the point where I had to thrust myself out of the kitchen and gasp for fresh air. The cooks always got a good laugh out of that. The cooks, by the way, spoke no english so conversing was always full of hand gestures. There was one parent that was helping out, however, and she did speak English and sometimes translated for us. So the next arduous task was washing the ancient and long since used tins. Instead of placing the tins in the closest, the sensible place to put unused items, they had been littered on the counter tops but mostly on the floor behind the oven. And so along came the cooks with long straw brooms and swept out all the tins from the corner along with lumps of dirt and filth. Then the tins were carted out to another cook who scrubbed them in a tub of hot, soapless water. Once the tins were "clean" they  were brought back into the kitchen for our disposal. So while all this hustling and bustling was happening Nicole and I mixed the ingredients for our wonderful cakes. Three cups (a literal drinking cup) of Not For Sale Kenya Government Vegetable Oil which Anastasia supplied us with. Then 2 kg of sugar, 3 litres of milk, a kg of margerin, two packets of strawberry drink mix (for colour), three bags of flour, 12 eggs and lastly water measured out by the cooks. I think they added about three litres. The water, by the way, was brought in from a cart pulled by a donkey lead by a rather angsty Kenyan man. The water had to be purchased for 120 shillings, roughly a dollar fifty. The consistency of the mix was similar to that of pancake batter. The next task was not pretty. We had to oil each tin (fifty per batch) by hand. This government not for sale oil had become chunky and solid, down right revolting and even worse when you had to dip your fingers into it. Next we filled each tin with a table spoon of batter and popped it into the oven aall the while we would dash outside to breath fresh air whenever our lungs became to filled with smoke. When the first batch came out of the oven we realized we had not oiled the tins enough and so before we could use the tins agian we had to scrape the cake remnents out. I was handed a pair of broken scissors (from the ground haha) and Nicole a dull buck knife. The saying appropriate here is T.I.A or This Is Africa haha. Oil, fill, scrape, gasp for air, repeat, repeat, repeat.... We did this from 9:30 til 3:00. By the end of the day I hardly even noticed the smoke in the kitchen or the complete shade of black that my hands had taken on. The Swahili chatter from the cooks was really quite melodic. It was a true taste of Kenya. So just as we were finishing up with the last batch we began to hand out the treats! I felt like I was a disciple complaining to Jesus saying "there are still 200 children left to feed and we've already given away half of the cakes!" but miraculously there were over fifty cakes left at the end of the distribution. Thank-you God! And thus concludes the wonderful Cake Day.

                           
                                These pics should give you and idea of the kitchen and it the smoke



Compass Foundation

Ahhh finally I am no longer a tourest but an inwardly tormented and selfless missionary, haha well maybe not quite but this private school is filled to the brim with orphans and desperate stories has definitley changed me in many ways. Our first visit to Compass was right after a visit to a rather well funded- still filled with orphans but pumped up with hope, love and very bright futures for the children- orphanage. I was rather let down in some perverted way that Hanne's (this was the name of our first orphanage visit) was not filled with clearly visable problems for me to fix. I seemed to just stand there with a couple other visiting white people, just looking around and feeling rather invasive. So after about an hour of chatting with Hanne (a Canadian who had come down on vacation one day and then just stayed and built an orphanage) we piled back into the van and headed over to Compass Foundation and MY what a difference! Here is a place that is just crying out for the touch of an overly motivated white person. First off, the teachers haven't been payed for 3 months and are rapidly resigning. Then there's the classrooms. 300 children divided up into dilapetated and dangerous cinder block, tin roofed rooms with no electicity and and wooden trusses drooping so low that one feels the entire thing will likey fall down at any moment. They do have some beneficial parts to the roughly half an acre in size lot though. There's the garden, which hasn't recieved rain in about 5 months so... then there's the cute little rabbits... that all have fungal infections and are really more of counted on mouths to feed... ahh but the fish pond will pull through! That shallow little mud hole that has no way of filtering water in or out and has turned so thick with talapia poop and all sorts of stagnant algea growth that it has now taken on a rather ominous glowing, opaque greeness. I could go on but the conclusion is the school is about to implode, literally in some ways, upon itself. *sigh. I am sleepy and the thoughts of filthy, hopeless, little children are fogging my mind and making me rather melancholly so I think I will continue this yarn after a hopefully peacefull sleep.

The Matatu Ride

This adventure took place on the third day of being in Kenya. I had heard of these infamously crowded, privately owned, public modes of transportation from my sister and dad had decided, along with my prompting, that we should ride one before he left for home. So asking Flora our maid (yes, a maid is a luxury for any one and seems a strange thing for missionaries to have a maid but in hiring a maid my aunt and uncle have created a job and a relationship) how much she paid for a Matatu which turned out to be 20 shillings. So we gathered our coins and headed out to the red, dusty side of the road to wait for our Matatu. After about five minutes I saw the dusty trail of the speeding Matatu. It screeched its breaks for a looming speed bump and then sped towards us like we were some kind of prey that was likely to disappear any moment. I jumped out of the way to avoid being run over then caught a glimpse of the interior of the twelve seater van. There were three people in the very front, most likely the driver’s family since the front seats were portioned off from the rest of the van, then the rest of the seats in the van were full except for two and there was four of us waiting to get on. I smiled and was just about to comment on how this was going to be crazy but before the van even stopped the side door slid open and a eager looking Kenyan jumped out and ushered us quickly in. And so, squishing and crawling in not at all an eloquant manner, we made our way to the one available seat in the back row and then Nicole and I squeezed into it. Once the other two were in the door remained open for the “spotter”, the Kenyan who made the driver aware of where to stop and also collected the money, hung out of the open door beside another misplaced passenger. It was truly invigorating! We counted 18 people the way there and 19 the way back. When the Matatu stopped at the Nakumatt (Kenya’s equivalent to Wal-Mart) I saw the spotter engaged in conversation with dad: “ahh, this one’s very nice too. How much to let me have them?” Nicole and I chuckled the comment off, our first marriage proposal!

Safe and Sound

Hey everyone,
sorry this is a little delayed for those following this blog it's just been so hard to sit down and type when there is so much to explore and see!
So here's what happened so far; Nicole and I flew successfully from Kinross to Detroit to Amsterdam to Kenya. We survived the 40 minute ride from Kenya airport to AIU campus where we are currently living in a quaint little apartment. There is not only running water but hot water for those of you who may have been wondering. The plants are, perhaps, the most breathtaking objects of attention for their leaves are twice the size of anything growing in Canada and somtimes are covered in brilliant flowers

The roads would be the next thing to mention; first off, there is no paint on the roads or speed signs but to make up for the missing speed sings towering speed bumps are placed every few Km. There is also massive, consuming pot holes mottled around the dark asphalt roads acting as another slowing technique. The roads are also a couple of feet narrower and the vehicles are larger than what is the norm in Canada creating a rather hair rising experience. Any ways we are safe and completely in love with Gods creations!

Yikes!

Well today is the 26! The trip is finally starting to sink in! I can tell by a few, very strong symptoms:
a) It's 10:00 and I'm not in bed. Instead I'm blogging and setting up a makeshift photo shoot with a white sheet for underwear (see donations page),
b) I had an a 20 min conversation about shorts with Nicole,
c) I ate a whole package of oreos in one day out of sheer nervousness and
d) I have a chem exam in 2 days but I still have the ability to smile and laugh!
Yep, the trip is close.

Here's The Story...

Three years ago my sister Megan took off on an epic adventure into Kenya to live with my aunt Lois and uncle Mark. There she helped orphanages, worked with prostitutes and taught english to the locals and ever since I have been counting down the days until I could go too. Last year in Biology class while recounting my plans for the trip I recruted Nicole to come with me. Thankfully she has flown internationally before but the expirience promises to be terrifying non-the-less. After two more weeks of mentally exhausting school, three days of labourous exams and two days last minute packing we head of to Kinross then to Detroit then to Amsterdam then, finally, to Kenya.