Off to the African tropics

We are off to study and film the various peoples that are on this unamed tropical island.

Mission Update 8: How I Was Violated by a Mentally Handicapped African Man or Adios Machakos!

Now before I tell the story that has given the name to this update, I must give some back story. A few days after returning from Rwanda, I was headed to Scott Theological College in the town of Machakos to film the Africa Based Orientation (ABO). Andy was producing a video on the entire orientation process for full term missionaries. We also drove a man named Henry, who used to come beg at the door, because he said he needed to go to Machakos.

On the drive there, the road eventually smoothed out after a long stretch of rough, uneven, and practically nonexistent road. When we hit the nice part of the road, Andy picked up speed since there was no traffic to slow us down, and it is a treat to drive at normal highways speeds, without getting your brain rattled to a pulp, in Kenya. As we were cruising along, and I was looking at the pretty mountains ahead of us, the Land Rover suddenly lurched. Everything, including ourselves, became airborne in the cabin for half a second, then crashed back into the seats. I looked at Andy, “sorry about that guys, it was an unpainted speed bump.” We hit about 4 or 5 more unpainted speed bumps every 200 yards. None of them had an kind of sign or marking for them. We imagined that the people from around that area must have done that on purpose so that they could sit out next to their shops and watch the cars crashing into them at breakneck speed. We called it a bad idea, but they called it free entertainment.

After arriving in Machakos, Henry told us that he needed some money for the return journey, unfortunately we didn’t have any bills small enough, so we sent him to go get change. While waiting for Henry to return, a man wearing a bright purple sweater came up to the car and started looking in, then he came to both sides and shook our hands. I noticed that his face didn’t look entirely normal and the way he walked around seemed odd too then I realized that it was because he was somehow mentally handicapped. He stared in the car some more, and then walked across the street. I watched him try to shake the hand of a Kenyan man, wearing an expensive suit, but the man shoved him away with an angry grimace and a few unkind words. Andy went and found Henry, and then we left for the college.

We filmed some of the ABO sessions, and then caught up with Loren* and his wife Donna who run ABO. Later we also met up with Mike*, who teaches at Scott, and his wife Kim. He invited all of us to eat dinner at his place, which was much appreciated since homemade pizza is much more exciting than Kenyan cafeteria food. Besides, we got to see some of his old home videos he made as a teenager, which was thoroughly entertaining.

The group went to town for a mosque visit and a chance to see some Kenyan city culture. We took boda boda, which are bicycles with padded rear seats, to town. Andy wanted to film in town, so I carried the camera, and even took some shots from the bike. Since we didn’t have permission to film in the mosque, we split up with the rest of the group after arriving.

While walking through town, we ran into the man in the purple sweater again. Andy managed to step around him and continue walking, but I was less nimble with the large camera and monopod. I had to maneuver around him while shaking his hand, which I managed to do, but before I could turn around and keep walking, he took a long step forward and grabbed me in a big bear hug. A group of men hanging out in a barber shop had been watching the whole scene and started giggling and making cooing sounds usually reserved for babies. I gave him a little pat on the back to be kind and then started to try and push away without dropping the camera or leaving it exposed for someone to take it. While I was still pulling away, as my head was in mid-turn, I felt the wettest, sloppiest, most disgusting, saliva and snot filled kiss that I have ever received, straight on my neck. At this point, the peanut gallery sitting in the barber shop erupted into laughter, I managed to pry myself from the guy’s arms then catch up with Andy, who was looking across the street completely oblivious of the whole situation, “Did you see any of that?” I asked. “See what?” he replied. “Never mind, I’ll tell you when your older**. Let’s get out of here!”

We went to a nearby market and bought some bows and arrows for the boys. As we walked back to meet up with the group, I noticed people were staring at us more than usual. After a quick self examination, the reason was obvious. A couple of white men walking around, carrying 2 bows with arrows, and a huge movie camera propped on a monopod. A little girl was sitting on the curb and her eyes were like 2 special order party platters of wonder and disbelief as she stared. As soon as our backs were turned to her she yelled something about the wazungu and a “picha”*** to her laughing mother. We met back up with the group and crammed into little 3 wheeled public transportation vehicles called tuk-tuks, which got passed by a couple bikes going uphill, and returned to the campus. I ran to the bathroom and washed my neck off with as much soap as I could use with out burning a hole in my throat.****

As we were leaving, I thought about all the wonderful experiences I had in Machakos; getting stared at, carrying heavy equipment around, filming a lot of interviews, getting crammed in a tiny vehicle, and ,of course, being violated by a man. “You know, Andy, I don’t think I am going to really miss this place”, “really?”, “and on that thought...”, I paused and looked back at the town getting farther away, “Adios Machakos!”

The trip back involved carefully looking for the invisible speed bumps, passing huge trucks that were sandblasting us on the rough road, and finally making it to a calm, smooth road, where there was a sign saying “WARNING: Rough Road Ahead!” At that point I couldn’t help myself, “Hey Andy, watch out! There is a rough road ahead!”, he responded in the most animated of voices, “Oh no! not a rough road!”, “I think they misplaced that sign by about 10 miles back there.” It was smooth sailing all the way home.*****


*Both Loren and Mike had been at the Men’s Retreat.
**He was older about 3 minutes later when I had come to terms with the fact that I had just been violated by a homeless mentally handicapped African man wearing a purple sweater, which is as awkward as it sounds.
***Translates into “picture” or “camera”.
****It is important that I mention the un-ceremonial washing because my future wife may read this someday and I don’t want to her to be too grossed out.
*****Just in case you couldn’t tell already, I really like footnotes!

New Rwanda Video

Check out the recent video that I worked on..

http://aim-ofm.org/2008/11/14/so-we-do-not-lose-heart/

Alternate site: http://ofm.blip.tv/#1513536

Mission Update 7: The Land of 1,000 Hills and the Shadow of 1,000,000 Deaths

After a week of preparation, we were finally leaving for Rwanda. James picked us up early in the morning to beat the Nairobi traffic. We arrived at Jomo Kenyatta Airport and waited in the endless line to get into the airport terminal. After passing through the security check, we stood in another line to get our bags weighed. Surprisingly, the pastor of Nairobi Chapel was waiting in the same line. We spoke to him for a few seconds (he was headed for Michigan to speak at a leadership conference) before getting in another line to get our boarding tickets. Unknown to us, a man had come outside to the line and called everyone for our flight. Naturally, when someone calls a flight that isn’t going to “Kigali, Rwanda” on a non-stop flight, when that is your destination, one tends not to take notice. Fortunately, there were still seats left on the plane. They apologized thoroughly for their mistake, but they had to bump us to first class.

After passing through two more security checks, we reached the boarding area, where we descended straight onto the tarmac, walked through busy airport traffic, past two airplanes, then reached the plane we hoped was the correct flight. They seated us in the front row of first class, with the most leg room, and gave us complimentary juices before the flight even took off. Ted told me that this was a fluke and that they usually don’t get this kind of treatment. I agreed, “I know, I’m sure you two usually are in business class with your high paying missionary salaries. How dare they downgrade you to first. It’s simply an outrage.” Then they served us more juice and peanuts. “Maybe we should try coming late for our flights more often”, I suggested. The flight was only an hour long, but we were still served a first class breakfast. They even provided real silverware and a complimentary bottle of Tabasco sauce. Obviously, the airlines assumed that terrorists do not fly first class; a metal silverware knife and a bottle of Tabasco are serious security risks if you ask me.

The landscape changed drastically beneath us as we flew over the barren desert and mountains of the rift valley, the glistening surface of Lake Victoria, and finally our long awaited destination. Rwanda is known as the “Land of 1,000 Hills”, which I had believed to be an overstatement to entice tourists into visiting, but I was soon corrected as we broke through the clouds during the landing cycle. The hills continued as far as my eyes could see, one after the other, as though a sea of endless green waves. As we descended I saw small huts with rusted metal roofs scattered across every hill and valley, surrounded by fields filled with a variety of different crops, including banana, mango, and avocado trees. It was beautiful, but I had a different word in my mind; genocide.

Since we had an ideal seating location, we emerged from the airplane first, and walked to the small airport building. Getting through customs took less than 20 seconds because of our American passports. All of our luggage, including the large amount of film and lighting equipment, came during the first 3 minutes of the belt turning on. We were all surprised at the complete ease of the check-out process. While pushing the cart of equipment I turned to the others saying, “boy, that was easy”, only to be stopped by a security guard who wanted to check our bags. I suppose that just when you think you’re done, you think again. We were surprised to discover that they were not checking for the usual suspects of airport smuggling, but something far more dangerous and detrimental to their country. They were looking to confiscate our plastic grocery bags.
We soon found the reason behind the absurdity, after being picked up by Bruce, a British AIM missionary juggling teaching and serving as director at the college. Unlike Nairobi, Kigali, the capital city of Rwanda, was well developed. The country’s recent development was due to the large amount of guilt money from western nations after the genocide, accounting for half of Rwanda’s government budget. The streets were nicely paved and men were laying fiber optics beside rain drainage ditches. There was also absolutely no trash on the streets or sidewalks. Bruce told us that the government, in attempt to redevelop the country, had outlawed all plastic bags and most non-recyclable items. Since Rwanda was originally a french colony, the roads were driven on the right, unlike Kenya, although there were many british style cars that awkwardly drove around, attempting to stay on the right side of the road. Bruce pointed out men, wearing pink pajama like clothing, working on building a wall. They were convicted felons. Rwanda does not need too much security for the prisoners since the country is so small, there is really no where to hide, especially not in the pink pajamas. The threat of escaping prisoners causing trouble was also nonexistent since even the private security guards for restaurants and malls carried AK-47s and tactical shotguns. After seeing the pink pajamas, I wanted to revise the US prison system. For some reason, many in my generation think that it is somehow “cool” to have been in prison because it somehow means you are tough. If criminals had to wear ridiculously ugly pink pajamas, then they really wouldn’t look very tough; thus killing the juvenile desire to be a “thug”.

Speaking of juveniles, we found that he Rwandan children also enjoy yelling, “wazungu! wazungu!”, and, “howaru?” We started to pretend that we were celebrity music stars in a hit rock band called Wazungu and our greatest hit song was “Howaru”. Then we heard something that we did not expect, “Wazungu! Give give me my money!” We turned to Bruce for the answer. “Yes, that is a little something that the children have picked up. I don’t even notice anymore.” He responded casually. Throughout the week, the children continued to yell, “give me my money”, and a variation, “where’s my money?” By the end of the week, we were responding, “give me MY money”, and, “where’s MY money?!” Once, I told them I didn’t have any money for them in German, just so that I could say that I did.

For most of my life I have been at odds with British people I have known. For some reason, I just never had very many good memories. But for the 2 weeks before and during the Rwanda trip, after spending a short amount of time with David, Bruce, and his family I have grown to love the British. I enjoyed Bruce’s children’s politeness during meal and David’s intelligently dry humor. OFM thoroughly enjoyed spending time with both of them. I remember one day when we were driving in the car and Bruce began to sing “God Bless America”. I just about died when he sang “my home sweet home!” After that we decided it was only fair to sing “God Save the Queen”, although we had a little more difficulty remembering the lyrics than Bruce, but the rest of us chimed in with gusto at the conclusion, “God Save the Queen!” Just for clarification, there are no hard feelings from the Revolutionary War.

The college met at night since they were renting a school premises that was being used during the day, which meant that we had to try to film in badly lit classrooms, but it also meant that we had the rest of the day to film other places around Kigali. We went to a market, full rows upon rows of fly covered vegetables, merchants asking us to pay either pay for filming them or for their goods, and buckets of mush of which I had no desire to discover the taste. After buying a few souvenirs in town, and giving Bruce a few hours with his family, we took the most popular form of public transportation home. There were still matatus driving around, although they were not covered in obscure decorations or playing rap music, but we employed 3 motorcycles, called motos, instead. We brought our own ball caps to cover our head under the communal helmet that each driver carried with him. The visors on the helmets were cracked, held together by probably a whole roll of clear masking tape, and slightly tinted brown, but probably not originally. I flipped mine up when I had the chance. The motos weaved through traffic, overtaking each other in a race to get to the destination to prove themselves, either to the Wazungu or just to their friends, as the best moto. Mine had taken the lead and reached the destination first, although he didn’t get any extra money since Ted was the only one with enough cash left to pay for the transit. Another day, we went to the Kigali genocide museum, which gave us more insight into the history of Rwanda. We headed north to get out of the city and see the countryside.

Our destination was an area called Ruhengeri, but we frequently stopped along the way to film the amazing mountainous landscape. Everything we saw was either on one of the endless hills, or in between in a valley. Every inch of arable land was divided into farms; the rest of the land was too heavily forested or rocky. The road curved around the hills, creating mystery for what was beyond the next turn. We anticipated every corner, wondering what the landscape would bring next. Once we would take another curve that revealed a spectacular view of more overlapping hills or a river valley ,meandering into the distant fog, we expected that it had become as grand as it could. We couldn’t imagine the sight to be any more beautiful, but after each turn the scene surpassed the last. Eventually, we turned off the main road onto a rocky path that led into the forest. Sometimes the trees would break revealing a small waterfall, or drop away into another breathtaking valley. Our destination was revealed as we came up to a gate which was opened as soon as we arrived. We parked next to a brick building, a Catholic retreat center, set on the top of a hill point. The landscape before us immediately created a feeling of reverence. The hill dropped away and 3 volcanic mountains stood together, stretching into the clouds. Other hills plunged into a lake below that had small islands in the middle, inhabited by small thatched huts. A town on the bank was sandwiched between the foot of the first volcano and a hill which marked the border of Uganda. The sun broke through the clouds above. I wanted to stay to see the sunset there, but we had to return to Kigali to film the college. Bruce told us that people had taken refuge there during the genocide. The sun set as we travelled back, casting shadows and colors across the land. We were going to see genocide memorials the next day. I was filled with both dread and anticipation for what I expected to see.
As we walked up to the church, I noticed the smell of human waste and decay. It was the smell of death. I felt like I was choking on it and I wanted to cough, but I could not bring myself to even open my mouth. Then we saw the skulls on metal racks, stacked neatly, although many were cracked and split. One skull had the shard of a broken spear sticking out of it, another was completely in half; broken as if it had been crushed with a blunt object. The clothing of the victims were hanging on the walls and ceiling, creating the image of a dark gateway to the other end of the building. I turned on the camera to try and capture the emotion and darkness of the room, but it felt like a lost attempt; there was no substitute or recreation of a place where death and tragedy lived so openly. I was in Rwanda. The church was a genocide memorial of 5,000 people. The room looked as though it would be cramped to try and fit more than 100 people there, but 5,000 had been brutally locked in that room and then subjected to the mercy of grenades and machine gun fire, then finished off with spears, clubs, and machetes. Left as a pile of human bodies to rot away. We finished filming then headed back to the car. I realized how disturbing it was that I stopped noticing the smell so quickly. I was disgusted how swiftly a human, such as myself, can so easily and quickly become calloused and unaffected by the pain of others.

I kept thinking, “here it begins again”, as we pulled into the parking lot of the next church, the site of 10,000 genocide victims. The bullet holes on the gates, brick pillars, and ceiling showed that the murderers had stood outside the locked gates in the front and unloaded onto the huge mass of people who would have been close enough to look into their eyes. I imagined the panic of those trapped inside, screaming and pushing to get out of the line of fire. There would have been no line of fire, only a spray. I didn’t see any bullet holes on the brick wall in the back of the church. It think that is because there were enough people in the way that the bullets could not travel that far. Their bloodstained and torn clothes were piled on rows of small benches. A white tile-covered crypt displayed more rows of skulls in a glass covered case. In back of the church were mass graves. At first, I assumed that they were the same flat concrete slabs that I had seen all over the country, that hid the dead bodies from sight. A woman working at the memorial walked up to them and opened a shelter-like door that had stairs underneath. The first one had coffins in two dark, underground passages. We knew that the coffins did not have single people in them, but piles of disposed bones. As I walked to the next one, I saw Andy leaning against a pillar, deep in thought, then he glanced at me. “That one has more bones” he said, as though it was traumatic to say, “I was down there by myself for a while.” After descending the dark stairway and looking into the first passage, I realized what an understatement “more bones” was. Although I had already seen stacks of skulls and the bones of many, that time it was much more. Each section of skulls extended into the dark shadows on both sides of the passage. The claustrophobia and smell seeped into my inner core being. I was past the point of tingles and discomfort. The hair on my neck did not stand up because it was paralyzed with terror. I had to force myself to walk to the end of both passageways. I could not let the fear rule me, and I had to somehow capture the images of destruction.

As I emerged, Andy was still leaning on the pillar. The second time I looked back into his eyes, I understood what was going through his head. I had the same questions and images running through mine. We sat silently in the car before leaving. The others had the look of pain and deep thought on their faces. I felt tired and fatigued, as though what I had seen had added the weight of many hard years on my shoulders. I was feeling the weight of human sin that has infected all mankind. As the car drove away, I looked at the endless mountains and striking sky of Rwanda. The sun shone through the clouds onto the trees in beams of glorious light. The hills were covered in contrasting geometric shapes created by farms. Even the simple huts of the poorest citizens were beautifully a part of the countryside. Then Ted voiced what all of us were thinking, “this is a country of extremes.” The opposing beauty of the land and horror of the past expressed the contrast of the darkest human sin and the glory of God’s creation. It was the land of 1000 hills, overshadowed by the death of 1,000,000 murdered people. How can such unspeakable evil be so close to such beauty? Later that week, I was filming at a Rwandan church. The congregation surrounded me in a sea of worship as they danced and sang. I saw old women, who had probably seen their entire families killed, with looks of tranquility on their faces as they raised their arms and eyes to heaven. Many people were weeping as they prayed. The beauty of their undignified surrender was as awe inspiring as the landscape around us. In a country that had become an empty shell after a traumatic event, many of the people within learned to give up the only thing they had left to the Lord, themselves. What I saw in Rwanda was darkness, not of one tribe or nation, but all mankind. The reality of it can leave one feeling helpless. But then I remembered what my Redeemer did for the helpless, powerless, and hopeless. If such a Man could take on all the pain and evil of this world and emerge victorious, then His magnificence must surpass and overpower all the darkness. The evil I saw only showed me how much deeper the price of redemption. If this world is filled with such unspeakable evil, then how much more unspeakable will the beauty of God be once this prologue is finished?

We returned on another flight back to Nairobi, but this time we were packed in with the other coach passengers. I looked once more at the hills, shrinking from my view. Rwanda had earned a special place in my mind as an extraordinary country. There are a few places on this earth that I will never forget; Rwanda is one of them.

We were returning. The thought had to sink in during the hour flight back. I was returning home. A home away from my family, but a good home nonetheless. I missed my old home, but I felt a deeper longing for my only true home, one that I will never find in this life. Which sounds quite morbid, but I had a great many things to accomplish and fight for before being taken to that home, one of which was life, and another of which was finishing the video for Bruce.

More than a month later, after a long process of consolidating and titling footage, editing, scoring, and fine tuning, we had finally finished the video. Bruce was in Nairobi for a leadership conference, so he stopped by to see the finished product. I do not know if it was the increased stress build up from his increasing responsibilities in an understaffed Rwandan college, possible lack of sleep, or maybe we struck an emotional cord for one of his deep passions, but we left him speechless for some time. When he finally brought himself to speak, he sounded as though he may have actually felt like crying. He said, “thank you.”

Mission Update 6: Five Stars for David

I was entering AIM as David was leaving. After working with AIM for 27 years, he was going to retire. Before he returned to the UK, and before we left for Rwanda, he took us out to dinner at one of the finest hotels in Nairobi, the Serena. As Ted drove around the parking lot to find a space, he told us that this was the same hotel that Kofi Annan had stayed at when he came to resolve the election dispute. As we walked through the entrance, I was surprised at the sheer wealth of the place. The gold rimmed, red velvet covered lobby looked more like a royal sitting room out of a Bollywood movie where a party of rich Indian royalty would suddenly begin to dance in a massive choreographed music sequence. I expected someone to walk up and kindly ask me to leave because I was too underdressed for the sitting room. I noticed that everyone else, minus our group, looked very much uninterested in the expensive decor. It was normal for them. Africans and Westerners in expensive suits walked around, paying extra attention to minding their own business, as though they lived there. My mind wandered to Kibera, less than a 10 min car ride away. We walked to the third dining area past a few open courtyards filled with exotic vegetation surrounding crystal clear pools for the guests. They seated us in a dark candlelight corner outside of the room. I decided to go to the men’s room for two reasons. The first, being that I actually needed to go, and the second was that I was curious to see what kind of bathroom was in a 5 star hotel. The door of the men’s room was behind a Japanese paper wall with samurai warriors painted on it. I will spare the rest of the details, but needless to say the bathroom was not a little classy. I sat down at the table, and was immediately handed a huge drink menu filled with all kinds of alcoholic drinks that I am not allowed to order yet. As I flipped through to try and find the page with something I could order, I wondered why menus that large don’t come with an index. I wanted something sophisticated, professional, and refreshing; I ordered a bottled water.

The table unanimously decided to go for the buffet. After all, who can resist an all you can eat 5-star buffet? I led the charge straight to the appetizers, they were called hors d’ oeuvres there of course. I turned to Ted’s wife, Liisa, wide-eyed and silently mouthed the word, “wow”, when we saw the long line of artistically arranged food. We both agreed that it felt as though we were taking apart pieces of priceless masterpieces. I would not have been surprised if they had told me to stop taking apart the expensive decorations and serve myself some real food. We each took a little bit of everything so that we would not miss a single flavor or opportunity. We also took as long as we needed in line since the few people who were also in the dining room never came to the buffet. When the group would go for the next round, Andy and Lesa would hang back for a quiet moment at the candlelight table. I stopped up the line a bit by discussing the different selections with David, Ted, and Liisa. I wasn’t in a hurry to leave, and I’m sure they weren’t either. We presented David with a gift, said our goodbyes, and left the hotel. I knew that it would be the nicest meal I would have in Nairobi, ever. I looked forward to seeing David again, in the UK, during my return trip with the Browns.

Mission Update 5: Thought Showers Over Rwanda

The week of September 20th, 2008, I moved into my new office, thanks to David, the British AIM Media Director that had been staying with the OFM team for a while, who kindly gave up the office prematurely since he was leaving at the end of the week. It will be the nicest office I will have for a long time. I have my own room, desk, and window overlooking the compound. For the first time I could say, with all sincerity and honesty, “step into my office”.

I spent the week before Rwanda researching about Rwanda and the college the video was about. We were going there to film a theological college called the Rwandan Institute of Evangelical Theology (RIET) or Faculté de Théologie Evangélique au Rwanda (FATER). The Alliance of Evangelical Churches of Rwanda (AER) created RIET in response to the genocide. We were going to film to raise awareness and support for the college. We brainstormed, or as David informed us the politically correct British term is, “thought shower”, although Andy and I began to call it “mind clouding” instead. David also taught us to always remember Mrs. Potts; a metaphorical elderly British lady who doesn’t understand film technique or care about style but is often the intended audience for many videos. Unfortunately, pleasing Mrs Potts is not a creative or glamorous task, but sometimes a necessary burden nonetheless. We kept her in the back of our minds as we discussed the style and structure of the movie. We weren’t going to do everything to please her, just enough to make her happy.

Mission Update 4: "We've a Story to Tell"

Habari zenu!

Although I have currently been to and returned from Rwanda, I must first tell you about my adventures on the men's retreat a few weekends ago (September 19-21st, 2008).

As I prepared to leave for the three day camping trip, I packed as though I would be thrown out into the bush with nothing but what I had in my bag and what was already on my back. I loaded every pocketknife, tool, battery, water bottle, hiking, hunting, tactical whatever I had at my disposal. Half of it fit on my military grade tactical vest, the other half i could load up pocket and belt, tooth and nail, holster and hip pack (ok I didn't really have a hip pack, but if I did I would probably have been arrested for suspicion of attempted government takeover. I was already pushing that boundary.) I was ready for anything. Well, maybe everything but a quiet weekend in the Bahamas or a trip to the local bank.

Andy and I climbed into the red old school Land Rover with broken power steering and set off for the weekend of adventure and stories. I sat shotgun (which happens to be on the left since Kenya uses the British road system), while David; the British AIM Media Director, and Brian; the eastern region administrative officer rode in back. It was my first time leaving the urban jungle of Nairobi and finally seeing more of the real Kenya. After leaving the city limits, the jungle seemed to rise up into a mix of rusty houses, trees, and hills in the distance. I was surprised to find the road actually very well maintained, especially with the horror stories and jokes I had heard at the expense of the reputation of Kenyan roads from missionaries and Kenyans alike. Andy told me that it was an atypical road because it is widely used by businesses to transport many products in and out of Nairobi. It made a lot of sense, especially as we passed large, overloaded trucks attempting to make it up hills and through the numerous police checkpoints. The left side of the road was intact but had two large grooves from the massive amount of trucks rolling over them. It reminded me of the steps in old cathedrals in France and Germany, or even some older government buildings in D.C., where solid steps sag after being walked over by so many feet. We were stopped at a few of the police checks, although they didn't hassle us too much for bribes (probably because most people in the car knew enough Kiswahili to make them uneasy; I just hid behind my aviator sunglasses and smiled.)

After an hour or so of driving, Andy told me to look out my side window in a few seconds. I could only see a hill and trees for a few moments and then there it was. The landscape dropped off sharply, then flattened out into a green ridge, then dropped off again into an even greener basin. it stretched as far as the eye could see and the sun penetrated the clouds as a spotlight penetrates the darkness to illuminate a great work of art. I snapped photo after photo, trying to capture every subtle change in landscape, every beam of light, and somehow all the wonder of it in a single frame; but that was an impossible task. Soon the pictures were not enough, I stopped thinking like a photographer or an filmmaker and just watched the landscape with my own eyes. I let myself get lost in its splendor, seeing all that I could, all that one camera could not capture, and thinking about all that I could not even comprehend. It was the African Rift Valley, and it was a sight I will never forget.

Everything was perfect. Actually it was too perfect. I found myself waiting for something terrible to happen. I pulled my camera out again to take a last few pictures before I would be car-jacked or abducted by aliens. Fortunately nothing too severe happened, but as I was looking through the camera, bracing for an asteroid or piece of volcanic rock to pulverize the car, a pink and yellow building filled the viewfinder. I looked up and saw that the same cell phone company that had practically brainwashed Nairobi with advertisements was not going to stop at the city limits. Row after row of hot pink buildings with bright yellow roofs blocked the view of the beautiful valley. With my pessimism satisfied, I sat back to relax, knowing that the eye sores were as bad as it was going to get.

The road began to descend into the Rift Valley and I saw a large lake in the distance. Brain said that it was the lake where we were camping. I snapped a few pictures before another long row of pink and yellow horrors blocked the view. We travelled for a while longer through the almost greenish desert-like landscape of the valley. After passing through a few towns dependent on the flower farms covered by half cylindrical rows of tents, we finally arrived at the campsite on Lake Niavasha. I was slightly disappointed when I saw that there were other campers around and that there was a building where they served groups meals and even Chai (tea) or coffee, I was planning on roughing it, and tea isn't usually affiliated with the term "roughing it". The campsite itself may not have been what I expected, but it still sparked my interest. Spread throughout it was yellow acacia trees with interesting birds and even monkeys living in them. In between the grass and lake were strange plants that looked like the giant unblossomed dandelions in Dr Suess books that used to feel so make believe, but now were right in front of me. 30 feet from those strange trees was a short electrical fence, marked with a sign warning about the danger of Hippos, although the fence only turned on at night. A piece of land and a dock stretched out from a break in the barrier of exotic plants. Lake Niavasha was striking with its mountainous background and vibrant wildlife. At that time of day the sun was just high enough to bring light for any camera to take a quality photo but low enough to cast shadows and create partial silhouettes. It was almost as breathtaking as the valley itself. At one time everyone was out on the dock taking pictures and enjoying good conversation. Eventually, most everyone slowly returned back to the campsite. I found it amusing how the On Field Media men had gone out first and left last on that dock, I guess we had more to see and more to record than anyone else.

That night we had a very Kenyan meal in the upper room of the camp house. There was chicken, fish, kachumbari (basically Kenyan salsa), ugali (which is an extremely bland staple dish in Kenya), and my personal favorite; chapati (which are fried greasy tortilla-like things that taste especially good while still hot). I told one of the veteran missionaries that I wanted to be culturally open and dive into all of the obscure and foreign dishes that I had never tried before. We both decided that he should choose what I put on my plate. Then he grabbed the biggest, ugliest, and toughest looking fish head from the serving tray he would find; Its eyeballs, gills, and fins were all intact, in fact, all they did to the head before cooking it was disconnect it from the body. I grinned like a little kid getting an award and thanked him for allowing me to get acquainted with the "local wildlife", I mean, culture. After we prayed, I began to attempt to eat the fish head using my fork and knife. Needless to say, it was quite difficult and frustrating since the fish head didn't even have that much meat on it and I was basically spending all my energy hacking through its skull. The most meat I got was the brain matter that just tasted weird and about as fishy as you can get. I know what you are thinking and, no, I didn't get any special super powers; in fact I didn't even get sick to make things more exciting. I did learn how to properly eat a fish head after watching Julio, a missionary from Brazil, dissect it and eat it with his hands and a fair amount of salt (both of which I had neglected to use). Since my stomach was still growling for some more food, I decided that maybe the chicken was a good idea. I'd had enough local culture for the night.A

fter dinner we migrated back to the site and re-started the campfire. Brian stood up and explained the theme of the retreat; "We've a Story to Tell". The idea is that we all have stories to tell and that camping trips have some of the best opportunities to share those stories, around a campfire, or make new ones with the many exciting aspects of spending time in nature. It seemed appropriate for the weekend that would start off my year of new experiences. I heard about many epic adventures that had taken place in their lives. Stories ranging from hilarious cultural mix ups from working in Africa to tales of survival in difficult and dangerous situations. I remember hearing an older man, named Stacy, tell another short term, college-age missionary about how he eventually married his wife. I was inspired how he made it through so many hardships and failures, ending up with more than just a successful marriage, but also an awe inspiring life. It was no less than an honor to listen to the stories of these men. After some thought, I also saw that the theme describes the mission of the On Field Media team; our purpose is to tell the stories of the missionaries and the church in Africa to declare the glory of God. We have many stories to tell, and this is the one in which I play a part.

That night we saw a hippopotamus near the edge of the trees. Everyone gathered at the fence to shine flashlights on it and try to take pictures of it. It was actually quite a small hippo, although it sounded like a lawnmower as it ate an enormous amount of grass. We discussed the thick skin of hippos and how they can kill alligators by snapping them in half with their powerful jaws. Needless to say none of us tried to make it overly aware of our presence, especially since the common consensus was that the two foot high "electric" fence was probably a facade to make jittery tourists feel safer. Unfortunately none of the cameras were powerful to catch the animal on film, or digital record for that matter. The next morning, Andy told me that the hippo was on the land next to the campground, on the other side of some brush. I had not been able to see it in the daylight, so I told him I was going to get a picture and set off by stepping over the fence. As I walked toward the brush, the sun shone brilliantly through the trees, giving everything a golden glow to it, and the ground glistened slightly with the morning dew. I looked at the exotic plants dividing the land from the lake and saw areas where many were snapped off or bent because something large had broken through. I continued to walk forward as the voices of people faded away. The silence was surreal, I could only hear the slight whispering of birds far above in the trees. I walked through a slight clearing in between a tree and some trodden underbrush, finding myself in an empty adjacent campground. I first looked at the water where there were a few birds sitting on logs and swimming, although I was checking for any hiding hippos that may be disturbed by my presence. After being half reassured by the lack of movement, I turned toward the other campground. There she was; the ugliest, hungriest, and most uninterested hippopotamus I had ever seen was contentedly chomping away at more grass. I slowly and silently sneaked closer to get a good shot of the beast. It looked up for a moment in my direction, and I froze. It looked around suspiciously, but quickly decided that it was still hungry and started mowing the lawn again. I got behind a tree and then slowly moved from tree to tree, taking pictures every time I stopped, just in case I had to bail out. I wanted the closest picture I could get. I managed to make it to the last tree before I would be out in the open, I thought about how fast hippos are supposed to be, and then thought about how the electric fence wasn't even turned on during the day. That's when I decided to snap a few quick pictures and then sneak off to increase my life expectancy.

When I returned, the group ate breakfast and then prepared for the trip to Hell's Gate. I had known the moment would come when I would be called to load up my survival equipment. When I heard the name Hell's Gate, I knew it was time to be prepared for, well, going into Hell's Gate. It doesn't get much more ominous sounding than that. To the other men, I entered my tent with nothing more than a pocket knife, but emerged transformed with more equipment than they even knew I had on me. It must have been a sight to see for them, and I could tell by the looks on their faces. Many who have actually lived in the bush found it humorous because I looked as new as I really was to Africa, they had learned to live very simply with hardly any tools. Most of them were still intrigued about my militaristic attire though. One of them asked me how many knives my tactical vest was carrying and I counted; it was five. It was also overkill. I knew I was being ridiculous, I was loving every second of it, and so was everyone else. Sometimes people just need some free entertainment paired with the reassurance that someone is armed to bone with random stuff that they wouldn't want to carry but love to have nearby; I provided both in that instance. Andy smiled and told me he thought I looked like some kind of operative who was about to kill something. Then I quoted one of my favorite movies with the line, "well I didn't get dressed up for nothing!", in my best scottish accent and we laughed for a while. Then we decided that I should carry the camera bag too, since I was already the group's token pack mule.

After arriving at Hell's Gate, we had to wait at the park entrance for the prices of admission to get sorted out with the park rangers, but after about half an hour we were finally in. Through the gates of Hell's Gate we drove, a caravan of trucks filled with men ready for adventure. The land was desolate, with fields of grayish green and brown grass, and tall cliffs the color of wet sand and dry clay in the distance. We stopped for a little while at a large rock formation that had formed to stand on its own separated from the cliffs. After climbing around and enjoying the view, we continued on to drive though the center of two cliffs that did not meet but seemed to jut out towards each other as if they were two armies facing off for a battle. There were no questions in my mind of why they named it Hell's Gate. We began to see thorny trees and bushes more frequently and a wide variety of animals that had made the humanly uninviting plants their food or home. We saw herds of wild giraffes, zebras, buffalo, warthogs, and a few different kinds of antelope. They would cross the small dirt road that meant nothing to them, even in front of cars, if they felt like it. We drove to the next ranger station, only stopping a few times to take pictures of the most interesting animals and breathtaking sights, then parked. We travelled by foot into the heavily forested area, stepping over divides in the land created by volcanic rivers. The divides were smoothed out by rainwater and dried by the sun, creating lines of different colored minerals that drifted out of sight around a rock and down a gorge. The line of men weaved around trees and bushes, many covered in sharp thorns, until we came to a downward slope that had rocks we used as steps. It curved down and we could see that the gorge grew larger because the terrain had split with the plate movements. We found a small waterfall that ran from some unknown water source above into a stream that flowed through the rest of the gorge. We stopped for a devotional led by Andy.

We discussed a story of a man named Job. He loses his wealth, status, and even children through problems ranging from bandit raids to natural disaster. He describes the way that the land is changed as the mountains are upturned and the foundation of the earth shakes comparing it to the way his life was changed. He was describing the geological events that formed the Rift Valley, stretching from Lebanon to the southern edge in Kenya, I was hiking through. I had heard the story of Job many times before, but I had not seen that Job was describing the beauty in the landscape that came from terrible events, such as a volcanic eruption or an earthquake. Before, it didn't mean anything to me, but now I have seen the beautiful valley that was created by events that were permanently devastating and destructive to the terrain. It would have been a flat, barren desert landscape had the damage not occurred. Job was still dispirited and brokenhearted, but he understood that when such things occur, it will take away what is not needed in him, and leave only a greater picture in the end. I looked around the gorge, and pictured all the powerful forces of destruction that ripped the land apart and washed away any pieces that were not held fast. Then I looked at the group of men around me. I noticed how many looked very weathered, as though large pieces of them had also been torn off and washed away in storms. Many looked a little rough for the wear, but all had the look of hope in their eyes. Each of them had a distinct fit into the land, as though they had known similar labor, but somehow they all seemed to stand out in the picture as well. Then I wondered what I looked like in the land. Did I solely stand out in the picture, or did I already fit in the niche prepared for me? Maybe I would only find out after a few more storms weathered me down.

After the devotional, we continued hiking down the gorge, following the stream of muddy water that meandered around the rocks and in between the cliffs. Sometimes we would stop as a group to take in the sight when the land opened up to create a breathtaking image, and other times we would have to work as a team to travel past obstacles such as sudden drops or waterfalls of hot spring water from deep within the mountains. Many times I would have to pass the camera bag to another, climb on part of the cliff face, drop down into into the hot muddy water, then catch the bag as it was thrown down to me. Other times I would put one leg on each cliff face and shimmy over to dry land because it was too risky to try and thrown the camera. After a few miles, the gorge opened up completely into a dense jungle, as green as unripe bananas, but heavily shadowed from the high sun. We crossed the stream, which had grown to a river now, and started climbing up a slope that reminded me of the one we had used for our decent. It was steeper, and much longer, because it ended at the top of the cliff. I was paying most of my attention to my foot placement and where I was headed up the cliff, but then I reached the top, and looked out upon the view. I could see a large portion of the gorge we travelled through, seeing how it cut the forested land above the cliffs in half, then opened up into the jungle which looked vast and endless now. The land shimmered in the strong sunlight above us, and I could see volcanic rock formations towering up from the deep forest on the cliffs. We stayed until the hot sun got the best of us, then hiked past a few shepherds and their flock who saw the view every day. On the road back to the ranger outpost we had parked, there were obsidian rocks strewn all over the ground from some old eruption. The smooth, black, and sharp rocks reflected in the sunlight, making the simple park road shimmer.

It rained later that day, postponing many of the afternoon plans, but we spent our time watching part of the group play a German strategy game, called Settlers of Caatan, enjoying every accomplishment and failure of the circle of strategists. After the rain had subsided, Andy took a smaller group, including myself, to a place called Crater Lake. The road up to the lake was narrow, dusty, and covered in dry desert bushes inhabited by tiny antelope creatures known as dik-diks. We would catch a glimpse of a few and stop, taking as many pictures as possible before they would run off into the thick brush. We reached the top of the crater, parked, and then talked our way into getting to see the lake for free. The transformation was instantaneous into a lush green jungle as soon as we began to travel down into the crater. A paved pathway with stairs built to the foot of the descent, was surrounded by many exotic looking plants. Flanking the path were a few thatched huts owned by the resort which had set up a profitable monopoly in the crater. The lake itself was a place of calm silence. It was surrounded by a small grassy bank and then a thick layer of forestation which extended to the top of the crater. The water was so undisturbed that it created an only slightly distorted mirror image of the trees and sky above. Even the small waves from a row boat that was parked at the only dock on the lake seemed to ripple away almost instantly. A flock of flamingos was frightened when Andy moved along the lakeside to get a closer camera shot on them. The noise they made echoed only slightly off the water but was quiet and did not break the peaceful surreal feeling. They flew in unison from the side of the lake, above the far end, and then landed completely synchronized in the middle. I noticed that everyone, including myself, was whispering. It would feel like an offense or crime for anyone to break the still and peaceful tranquility. I never expected a waterlogged volcano to be so beautiful.

That night, a huge group arrived at the campground. Buses upon buses and matatus arrived with people piling out of them like ants converging under the seat of a three ear old eating a slice of toast. They began to play the worst kinds of music at an outdoor disco across the fence of the camp. Blaring it as though they were trying to entertain the deaf community across the lake. I found myself dreaming about taking a knife to the speaker wires or destroying the electrical source of the place completely to cover my escape. Then I noticed that I wasn't actually sleeping but only day dreaming about sleeping and consciously thinking of ways to permanently kill the source of the music. It played into the early hours of the next morning, and each song was louder as the night progressed. I believe that I actually fell asleep sometime around 2 AM, only to wake abruptly around 4 AM to the sound of the last song ending. I soon fell asleep again, only to be waken up at precisely 7 AM when the newly arrived campers turned on every radio, car stereo, and boom box they had to the same kinds of songs that I personally believe should never be played any time of day, but especially not 7 in the morning. We decided that the greatest hypocrisy of tourists is the amount that they despise the presence of other tourists.

Andy wanted to show me the rest of the Rift Valley, so we returned by driving directly south, through the valley itself. It reminded me of driving in the southern Mojave desert in California. The road was almost completely straight and well maintained, with a sandy color shaded with green all around the car. Mountains at the edges of the rift rose up in both eastern and western distances. We drove through a small town that existed solely as a truck stop. It reminded me of an old western town that you see in the movies. It even had a saloon and a salon, except that the saloon was a barber shop and the salon was an bar. I believe they may have mixed up the two words. Not that it mattered because they were both bright pink with yellow roofs, which did take away from the western movie feeling. The road eventually reached the far cliff face and began to curve up it around the bends and turns of the rock face. The guardrails around certain turns were completely destroyed in a fashion that made me want to look over the edge to see the poor car that had fallen to it's demise. Observation posts jutting out from the road, held up by weak looking stilts, provided the usual tourist souvenirs and an opportunity to see the car wrecks in action. To me, it looked as though it would be more probable that an angry butterfly would knock down any one of the "safety measures" to cause the post to fall then for someone to actually stop at one to pay the "special mzungu price" for the souvenirs. The view from the cliffs was certainly worth the danger of the stilts, but I was happy with the view from the car at the time.

The timing of the retreat made it into a second orientation. I had already been oriented in one sense, but the weekend was more than that, it was an initiation. There were no boys on the retreat, only men. Old men who had been faithfully in service for longer than I have been alive, younger men who were only beginning theirs, men from every background and many different cultures, and then myself; the one now considered a man by these many respected and humble men. They thought of me as no less because of my age, to them I was a fellow man, fighting next to them in this battle of life; that in itself humbles me more than I can describe. They thought of me as one who would continue their work once their fight was over. I have the deepest respect for the men that I met that weekend.

We ate, worshiped, and prayed together that weekend. When I think of the many times we sat in a circle around the center of our campground with the fire as our only light, illuminating our faces only slightly, I cannot forget feeling as though it was a tribal council of warriors. As though we were a unit of soldiers with a common bond. There is something about a group of men spending time in fellowship together, encouraging each other, and enjoying time around a good campfire. It is the way men strengthen each other, like steel sharpening steel, every man sharpens the other, and the group becomes better for it.

Mission Update 3: Six Wazungu on a Matatu

It has been a while since I have written an update (for that I apologize). My week of orientation went very well, although most of it was spent in a state of partial unconscious jet lag which took me much longer to get over than I expected. On Saturday, September 13th, I went to the Nairobi Giraffe Center. It was exciting since usually Giraffes in the zoo are far away and caged. In Africa, things are slightly different...

Not only is the barrier only large enough to keep the Giraffes from trampling the people, but you can also feed the animals from your own hand, and if you are not careful they may try to head-butt you too.

I had a battle with some mosquitoes one night. I could hear them buzzing around, waiting for the exact moment to strike. As one would dive toward my head I would fling my covers around my head to keep them from getting me. Eventually I was focusing so much on the timing of my cover that I realized I was not sleeping at all. So I turned on the light and found two very frightened mosquitoes hiding on the wall. I found out that compassion is not a very abundant trait in an annoyed, jet-lagged American. I finished them off faster than a little kid with a "fun" size candy bar; two enemy casualties, no injuries, only a few hours of precious sleep lost. After that night I started using the mosquito net. Unfortunately my sleep cycle had been set off for what turned out to be at least another week of sleeping problems, so I had won one battle, only to lose another.

Going to church at Nairobi Chapel was a very interesting cultural experience. The church meets in a few very large tents on the land that they own because they did not have enough money to build any kind of permanent structure after purchasing the land. Inside was a portable stage with a mural of a backyard painted on a back drop behind the band. The music was very Kenyan, and a few songs were even in Kiswalhili. They even had a youth step team that put the Herndon High School one to shame. The message was good, although it was about marital conflict so I won't be needing it for a little while.

Afterwards, we went out for lunch in this Chinese restaurant surrounded by a wall of tall bushes. It had a red forbidden city like gate into the 7 car parking lot and Chinese garden lamps hanging around the exterior of the outside lawn where everyone ate. The food was delicious and no one was expecting anyone to leave quickly. Everyone enjoyed their time and conversations. In fact, we stayed for so long that by the time Andy and Lesa drove us back to the guesthouse, we only had an hour before the early 5:00 dinner!

On Monday, September 15th, we began the orientation sessions which included more specific culture training, a Kiswahili lesson, and a transportation lesson. The group I was going through the process with was really great. Trevor and Andrea are a young couple from a fairly northern part of Canada. Trevor is working at the mechanic shop at the International Services (IS) hangar while Andrea is planning on working with Children's ministry, possibly in the slums. The other couple was Chris and Sandy; they are from the states and Sandy is going to work at the Tumaini Counseling Center as a Psychiatrist while Chris is going to explore different ministries in art and also study African art in the process. Then there was Fiona; she is a lovely older Scottish woman who is also working as a Psychiatrist at Tumaini. With me, as the young and single guy, the group had a lot of variety.

- The transportation lesson was the highlight of the day by far. James, the Kenyan man who runs the guesthouse, was kind enough as the expert of public transportation to take us out for our lesson. We went on a matatu, a widely used form of public transportation in Nairobi. Basically a Matatu is a mini van that has been painted over with mismatched themes, including one I saw with a poster of Jesus on one window, next to a pop culture star on the other. Talk about random. Some matatus even have bad rap music cranked up to the level of a headache, others with the correlating crude music videos of the songs, and almost all of them accentuate the horrific "gangsta" culture that will be the downfall of all intelligent society. Funny how the most negative cultural thing I have seen since arriving is actually from US teen culture. Matatus are also usually crammed to the teeth in people who smell like they just stepped off an airplane. So there we were, six Wazungu in a Matatu (As many of you may have been wondering, a Mzungu is a white person, white people (plural) are Wazungu*.), getting pummeled by the same uncreative beat and the bumps in the road from speeding through traffic. After that sensory overload, we were all very grateful to pile out and get back our bearings.

Then we went to the place that had been for the most part an unseen mystery as we drove past it's entrances. The place that I had most wanted to capture with my own eyes ever since I had arrived; Kibera. It was a place that one cannot "prepare" for, one can only enter and let the sensory overload begin again. At one of the entrances stretched a railway flanked by long rows of wooden stalls filled with random assortments of used products for sale. I asked James if this was the largest market in Kibera and he said "No, this is just the entrance" although we had already been walking for at least a quarter of a mile. The ground was covered in trash. I saw shoe soles, candy wrappers, plastic cups, and anything else you could imagine. I could only make out what things were based on the shapes that I could recognize, mostly because the were all the same color on the ground; either black or reddish brown. The slum had the kind of smell that makes a matatu feel like a leather-covered limousine sprayed with French perfume from New York. People were everywhere; sitting at stalls, walking to work, cooking outside their houses, sweeping the dust off their dirt covered floors, and even picking up the few objects left from a fire that had destroyed many stalls before they could tear down enough to stop its spreading. Children's faces lit up when they saw us. They playfully repeated the universally taught phrase greeting for Americans, "howaru!?", and then lit up even more when we replied with the desired response, "fine! how are you?". They were happy just to be greeted by a Mzungu. Everyone, not just the children, was staring at us.

James took us farther into the slum. He pointed out a Catholic school, that provided inexpensive education for children, as we walked past it and then stopped near a large blue metal gate. He turned and said "This is my church. It is a Church of God, but it also has a school and an orphanage." As we stepped through the gate, the transition was breathtaking. The ground was still the same reddish brown dirt, but it wasn't covered in trash, and there were gardens with vegetables. It was quiet there, as though the problems and heartache of the outside world were somehow comforted in this place. There was the start of a church structure near the far wall. James said that they were slowly building it as they received more donations. He showed us the classes full of young wide-eyed students who were either too shy to speak, or yelled in unison "howaru!?". Next, we met with two of the pastors, they talked with us about the school, church, and future plans. They were incredibly thankful that we were coming to help and they told us about a church in the United States that had provided food for them to feed people during the election crisis. After we had left, I learned that the church they were talking about was actually my church. Suddenly the images from the video they had sent us flooded my mind. I recognized the pastor and remembered how we had raised support to purchase food for many people living in the slum. I hadn't meant as much to me until I had seen it with my own eyes. The seeing made it much more real.

The next day we had another transportation lesson, but this time we went by bus to downtown Nairobi. It was much quieter, smelled better, but it was much slower than a matatu. The city was like most western ones, except for the advertisements in Kiswalhili and the police with submachine guns and AK-47s. We weren't stared at by anyone, except for clever business owners who would invited us to come in and buy their souvenirs. In the windows I saw many bootlegged copies of DVDs that had mismatched titles and covers (think "Castle Escape 3" with the cover of "The Princess Bride"). Matatus are not allowed in the downtown area, probably because the city officials enjoy their soft music and courteous driving as much as I do, which meant that at the farthest boundary there was a line of them stretching around at least 2 city blocks to pick up customers to take into the outer city bounds. We walked a little farther to get one to take us back. The 15 minute bus ride there took the matatu 5 minutes to get us back.

The group decided to venture out of the guesthouse compound to one of the local shopping centers before dinner that night. A line of six Wazungus traveling down the street; young, old, married, single. If I was a Kenyan, I would have stared too, and they did. They did.

The next two days flew by as we finished up our orientation sessions and language classes. We toured the International Services hangar which is the headquarters of IS that all of our ministries fall under. There I saw the AIM Air fleet and met with Allen the director of IS. We were having such a great discussion that Lesa had to make us stop to finish the tour. The next day we saw the OFM office in Upper Eagle's Nest at "The Compound", where I will be working. We also visited the Eastern Region office that all is in charge of AIM in the eastern region (funny how that makes so much sense) and Tumaini where Fiona and Sandy stayed to settle into their offices. I went out to lunch with John and Joy. We went to a food court which was much different since you sit down and then each food place sends a server to your table. It became confusing when I had five menus to choose from and each server would step up and ask me what I wanted if I began to look at their menu, or even if I didn't. Accidently I ordered a Coke (which do taste different) from one place and my food from another. No one seemed to mind though, probably because half of us made the same mistake too. After the meal I was take back to the OFM office where I began my first day of work.

My first day of work consisted of loading Final Cut Pro onto my computer and being connected to the network. Then I went home with Andy and unpacked in my room. Then re-packed for the Men's retreat that weekend (which I shall describe later).

Thanks to everyone for your patience and support!

*Mzungu actually isn't a racial slur because any Asian-Americans or African-Americans are still called Wazungu (In fact Indians are called Asians by Kenyans). It technically means "wanderer", which is slightly humorous in relation to tourists or even colonists.