Tim Lang

Mission Update 13: Fighting Nairobi Traffic (Most Extreme Elimination Challenge: Africa Edition)

2010-08-13T09:05:00.000-07:00

This update is dedicated to Lowell Tunstall. Thanks for donating the bike Lowell, it has provided opportunities for many adventures, and even brought me closer to God. Sorry for abusing it so much.

As legs were pumping, I could feel my heart racing, although my lungs were attempting to convince my stomach to give them some extra room to breath but my stomach was already in an overworked state, running on mostly stomach acid and a cup of coffee, feeling rather sick of the idea and it didn’t help when I followed Andy into the white smoke from a pile of plastic burning next to the road, which caused me to gag, creating an angry uproar from my argumentative organs whilst my eyes began to burn from the smoke just as my lungs began to legislate for a redistribution of energy resources due to the increase of strain from lack of oxygen based on increases in pollutants and altitude for my back ached from carrying my laptop, which felt more like a cinderblock in the backpack, but my brain called for radio silence, which was immediately filibustered by my lungs when a Matatu cut us off and then proceeded to accelerate, blowing a black cloud of smoke in it’s wake causing my intellect to ponder the fact that, under the circumstances, just driving and taking up smoking may have actually increased my life expectancy although I quickly refocused after dodging a few more Matatus making my legs decide to keep going and completely ignore any corrupt calls from anything except the nervous central communication system as I dodged an another pedestrian before I finally arrived at work coincidently out of breath as many of you may be if you just read this extremely long sentence out loud.*
We pulled up to the compound, and the friendly old Kenyan man, Francis**, opened the large green gate for us.

I walked to Ted’s office, “Morning *wheeze* Ted *wheeze*”,

“So you biked with Andy today, huh?”

“Uh huh *wheeze* Do you want me to finish transcribing the rest of the interviews?”

“Yes, how far did you get yesterday?”

“I’m at the boring one with the doctor saying things that would take me 20 years of medical training to understand.”

After an exciting day at work***, Andy and I suited back up to bike home. Considering that the journey to work was mostly uphill, it meant that the trip home was almost exclusively downhill. During that time of day, the traffic was almost always backed up all the way down Ngong, one of the main roads heading into the city.

On one particular morning, I left for work like any other day, except for the fact that Andy was going to a FARM conference. I was anticipating getting to work because we were finishing some last touches on the film we shot on the island a few months earlier. I made it up the first steep hill, and began to work my way up the long ascent.

A truck began to drive next to me, at first, something about the way it was driving so close made me feel uneasy, but then I saw that it had the perfect handholds running along the side of it. A little voice in my head practically yelled, “Come on! Just grab on, it’s right there. You’ve got this...”, so I held out my arm and grabbed the truck. As soon as I corrected the initial imbalance, I looked up and saw a very full matatu stop ahead. One matatu in particular began to pull out so it could cut in directly after the truck passed. I overestimated the gap between the truck and the matatu, and before I could let go of the truck and escape, it was too late.

An instant before impact, the image of my head going under the truck and being squashed like a rotten tomato beneath a sledgehammer passed through my mind. Then my handlebar hit the matatu and I was flipped sideways off the bike. I was skidding forward, on my backpack, as I hit the ground. I watched my bike go under the back tires of truck and then my left hand, which pinned my arm to the ground for a second. I screamed out in anticipation although I didn’t feel any pain. Then rolled over, grabbing my left hand, to see the truck slow down for a second to see what happened, then accelerate away before he could get in trouble. I stood up, only to discover that my left shoe was not on my foot. I took a second to wiggle my left hand, expecting that it would be pulverized, but it looked and felt undamaged.

I walked back towards the matatu. The driver was staring at me with blank eyes; his gaze followed me almost mechanically, like a dead machine. I found my shoe beside the matatu. It must have been caught on the bumper when I flipped off the bike, which I saw lying in a heap a few feet away on the ground. I put my shoe on, propped up the bike, and tried to roll it past the stop. It wouldn’t budge, and I saw that the front wheel had become an object worthy of the artistry of Dr Seuss.

With a slight groan I picked up the bike, carried it to the side of the road, and stared back at the matatu driver whose glare had not changed or moved. I checked myself over again before calling Andy; I was scraped up in a few places, sore, very shaken, but nothing felt broken or severely damaged. Andy was in the middle of hurriedly packing to get out the door when I called. I probably could have thought a little harder about which words I used, but I was still pretty shocked.

“Hey Andy, you know how we held on to a truck that one time? Well I just got hit by one... actually it was more like run over... but I’m OK! Really I feel ok... I’m not so sure about the bike though.”

It was a bit of a shock for Andy. He asked if I needed to go to the hospital, but I told him not to worry about it. I just wanted to inform him of the situation. I called Ted to ask for a ride since I was closer to work than home. He told me that Liisa was on her way to pick me up.

Meanwhile, a Kenyan woman approached me. She had seen what happened and asked me if I needed any ice. I told her that I was fine, but thanked her for the offer. Before that point, I hadn’t realized that no one else had actually checked to see if I was injured or not. A few people were staring at me, but the woman was the first to actually approach me and ask about my condition. The woman walked away, but after a minute or so, another came with a plastic bag. She told me that her friend had sent her with a bag of ice for me. I glanced at the brownish ice with small flecks of something black in it. I looked at my elbow which was scraped the worst since it had hit the pavement first. I decided to not add infection to injury, and politely declined her offer.

Soon after, Lesa called my cell phone, with the sound of a frantic mother in her voice. I assured her that I was ok and that Liisa was coming to take care of me. The image of what happened kept cycling in my head, even as Liisa picked me up and took me back to get disinfected and bandaged up. Her calm demeanor was good for me since I was completely wired.

“When you go to heaven and look back at this event, I wonder how many angels it took to save you.” She reflected. I half stumbled over my response, which I was only coming to realize myself.

“I have no idea! I’m still getting over the fact that I’m still alive! I will just have to tell people that I have been saved by God... at least twice now.”

“You must be full of adrenaline right now.” A factual statement that I answered as though it was the question, “Are you glad to be alive right now?”

“Yes... yes I am.”

In reflection of my situation, I felt completely helpless in light of my life being so easily taken away, but also slightly invincible because I had been saved from serious injury. I have realized since then that it was my pride which caused my downfall.

Lesa picked me up to take me to her rehearsal of “The King and I” at Rosslyn Academy. After many questions from my friends, I told the story behind why their director looked very much on edge and why I looked like I had been run over by a truck. After rehearsal began, Becca and Hannah**** came by to ask me how I was feeling, but then my adrenaline wore off and I drifted into a fatigued slumber. The next few days, I literally felt like I had been run over by a truck. The funny part is that the only part of my body that wasn’t sore was my left hand.

A day later, I used Andy’s bike and set out on my usual commute with a new sense of care and gratitude for being able to make the journey again. One day, the whole Brown family and I were driving back from another rehearsal. At the bottom of the hill was a Kenyan man’s body, facedown, with a bent and twisted bike next to him. Surrounding his head was a morbid halo of gelatin looking blood and brain matter. The thought, “that could have been me”, instantaneously crossed my mind.

I was intelligent enough to refrain from hold onto any more trucks after the accident, but my adventures on the Nairobi roads were not over yet. It was in my last few months in Nairobi that I biked during rainy season. Arriving at work wet and muddy is a fun experience, but not as memorable as a couple of the times we headed home through the worst of the downpour. On one occasion, the traffic was especially bad because of the rain, but Andy and I were speeding past through the middle lane. At one point the cars were cramming so closely that I hit one car’s side mirror, and then over-corrected and hit another car’s mirror on the other side. I hadn’t broken any glass, so I kept on pedaling.

A week before heading to Sudan, I was at the office late to finish some tasks. It began to thunderstorm pretty heavily, and I watched the road in the compound become a mud puddle. I said, “this is going to be awesome!”, to myself and packed up my things. As I pedaled through flooded roads and got completely covered in mud, I realized that my future children would probably not understand why I love to go bike through inclement weather. I was going to be one of “those” dads.

I never had as much fun biking home as that though. At times, I would pedal down and my foot would become submerged in water. The thunder and lightening would energize me and add another aspect of surprise to the grand experience. I pushed past cars stuck in flooded areas and was drenched by a few more determined drivers as they passed me. I let out a war-cry, earning more surprised stares from the few pedestrians, while sliding down the hill which had practically become a river. The guards at our gate waved and gave me the kind of smiles that only Kenyans know how to give to a crazy Mzungu.

I stopped by Becca’s house to drop off the dvd. Her mother opened the door and smiled.

“You must be looking for Becca.”

“Yes. I have a dvd for her.”

“Just a second. I’ll get her.”

Becca came to the door and stared at me as though I was the swamp monster emerging from the marsh, which considering my appearance probably wasn’t too far from the truth.

* * * * *

A time I must recall is when I stayed later at the office to make up for the time I lost the day before with my bike accident. I was at my desk, and the guys from the IS Hangar started getting home. Ryan Williams, an AIM Air mechanic, came upstairs to visit me in my office. He asked how I was doing and I responded with my routine, “I’m alive, but I feel like I got run over by a truck”, which we both laughed about. Then, he told me that they had prayed for me. At the time, it didn’t mean as much to me as it does now. A month after I returned to the states, on August 1st, 2009, Ryan was in an airplane accident. Almost a week later, on August 7th, I found out that, as it was put in the e-mail I received, “[he] succumbed to his injuries and went home to his Lord and Savior.” I was reminded of the sacrifice good men often pay for the sake of the gospel.

*This extremely long sentence is in tribute to A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh.

**I accidently called Francis the wrong name, Franklin, for probably half of my time in Nairobi. It is probably a result of my desire to be some kind of Film Noir detective who say, “Thanks Frank”, to his office security guard every day. Unfortunately, Francis was too kind to correct my mistake.

***This is only partially sarcasm. Although transcribing and logging footage was not very exciting, everything else (editing, writing, brainstorming*, and many other “ing” verbs) at work was quite enjoyable.

*Thought showers, mind clouding, etc. I believe this is my first footnote of a footnote.

****Becca was my boss’ boss’ boss’ daughter and next door neighbor. Hannah is Andy’s cousin and helped welcome me as the “Honorary Brown Family Member”, with the rest of the Brown clan. They are two of my closest friends from Nairobi.

Mission Update 12: Mosquito War II (Attack of the Evil Bloodsucking Night Creatures of Darkness)

2009-04-24T05:06:00.000-07:00

Although the title probably sounds more like a cult film from the 50s, it is actually the account of my epic conflict with the large and loosely banded swarms of mosquitoes in Africa. It has been said that history is written by the winners, but I do not believe that to be universally true. Mosquitoes just don’t know how to type. Many lives and hours of sleep have been lost during the night to tell this story.

“I spy the target. He is just lying there completely unaware of our presence. As soon as the light goes out, we plan to strike. We’re in luck. He isn’t wearing body armor tonight. I’m going to eat that [buzz] for dinner. I’m even going to fly by his ear after I eat so that he will be more tired, that way we won’t have to wait as long tomorrow night. My commanding officer referred to this strategy as psychological warfare. I’m going to move a little closer. I’m so hungry and the others probably are too. Wait. Did he just look over here? I can’t be too sure, but I thought he looked up from his book for a second. No, good, he is just turning the page. Are the others in position yet? Yes, I expect that tonight’s operation will be successful. I shouldn’t take my eyes of the target like that. He is known to act unexpectedly spor- I see the paperback cover of a murder mystery novel- then, darkness.”

-Excerpt from The Rise and Fall of the 301^21st Mosquito Airborne Division of East Africa’s Tactical Entomology Rank Services

The First Mosquito War began after a few military skirmishes in the AIM guesthouse, known as Mayfield. Although the guerilla forces suffered great losses at the hands of the scantily clad and less mobile human force, a “Mosquito Net Diplomacy” was still adopted. This new adaptation by the human force resulted in a peaceful end to the First Mosquito War. With tensions between the two sides still elevated, the East African Tactical Hostility of Insect Maelstrom (EATHIM) began drawing strategies for the possible future hostilities.

The Human force eventually emigrated to a permanent settlement under a less organized but still mosquito occupied Nairobi area. EATHIM was forced to deploy the Mosquito Airborne Division of East Africa’s Tactical Entomology Rank Services (MAD-EATERS) when reports of an unexpected attack on a breeding outpost were received. After further investigation, the mosquitoes discovered that the unprovoked attack was a live weapons testing of a deadly chemical known only as “Doom”. The Science Understudy Commission of Kenyan Entomology Research Service (SUCKERS) were unable to identify the exact compound structure of the weapon*, but they did observe the pressurized containment structure. The external metallic casing was often used as a blunt object to crush the MAD forces.

As the conflict evolved, new weapons for the human force were developed and used on the ever vigilant MAD forces. The human supply of Doom was redistributed as ant forces began an invasion on the settlement, ignorant of the already occurring war. The dwindling use of Doom on the MAD forces was not enough for a successful campaign because the Human force began to use the more conventional “Electric Flyswatter”. This tool of destruction was originally developed for overpopulation control of Bosnian house flies during the Potato Famine of ’84. The racket-like structure disguised its power as an electroshock incineration tool. Its raw power sent electric currents through its target, often torturing its victims before the excruciating final surge.**

An eyewitness account provides un-refutable evidence that the human force used both devices during MWII:

“[The Human Force] stopped at the door, and turned to Andy and Lesa who were sitting on the couch. They were grinning because he was holding both the canister of [Doom] and the [Electric Flyswatter]. He said, ‘Tonight they dine in hell!’, then entered the room and closed the door. Five minutes later, he re-entered the main room, coughing and half suffocated, saying, ‘I think I got all of them.... I think I used too much doom... but I think I am becoming immune to the smell.’, then he set down both weapons. There were body parts all over the racket.”

-Excerpt from secret files of an informant, Kenyan Insect Agency (i, KIA)

Due to the need for active management of both devices, Human scientists began developing a new weapon that required minimal maintenance and supervision. This new device was called “Flower Brand Mossi Chips”. It’s advanced design incorporated a electronically powered housing device that burned a chemical, biological, and nuclear conglomerate fuel source called a Mossi Chip.

The fuel let off a lightly scented discharge in the air which killed and repelled both civilian and MAD mosquitoes. The first unforecasted use of the weapon caused the mosquitoes to scatter, leaving their hideouts and havens, making them easy targets for the Human Force to exterminate. During the bloodbath, the Human force found the main arms transportation route of EATERS known as Fireplace Bunker Chimney.***

On December 25th, 2008, a day that will live in infamy, the largest MAD invasion force of the EATERS was led by a noble general. They attacked at 0100 hours on the human religious holiday known as “Christmas”. The battle that ensued became a legendary marker in the entire history of EATHIM. The heroic Christmas Day Invasion successfully caught the main Human target off guard, during a hard time away from his bloodline, but proved to have underestimated the preparedness of the defense strategy. The Human reorganized and followed with a devastating and wild counterattack. Using all the inhumane weapons at his disposal, he effectively crushed the dispersed MAD forces. Aftermath reports declared that the battlefield was uninhabitable for at least 24 hours (about 1/10 of a mosquito lifetime) due to the deadly Doom vapors, Mossi Chip radiation, and veteran accuracy of the ever destructive Flyswatter (it had been used to kill multiple Airborne Mosquitoes at once, even in mid-flight). The failure of the campaign resulted in the Insect Conference of Kaffeeklatsch Yalta (ICKY) declaring it an unsanctioned operation under a rogue general. He will live forever in glory by the esteemed name of “General Splatton”.

The International Tribunal Legion of Entomology (TITLE) sanctioned an international court to try the responsible human, known in the MAD ranks by the name of “The Incurable Massacring Monster Yeti” (TIMMY), for war crimes against mosquito-kind. The defendant was charged with the use of unecologically friendly weapons of mass destruction, the attempted holocaust of mosquitoes, and indecent exposure for coming to the court in “naught but his undergarments”. With the overabundance of evidence against the warranted international criminal, the court optimistically predicted that he would be held accountable for his actions. The optimism was short lived , however, when reports came that he had allegedly assassinated TITLE with Doom and left unimpeded.

After the lack of reprimands for his atrocities in superior court, more blood relatives of the perpetrator began emigrating into the already overpopulated human controlled zone. The deficiency of space forced the People Enraging Righteous Pests Syndicate (PERPS) Attaché to make camp at a place called couch. He bunkered down after a few attacks by MAD scouts. After almost a month, the PERPS evacuated the area as quickly as they had invaded, leaving TIMMY with a new device which led to the end of the conflict.

The legendary “Plug in Fan” had been sought after by the Human force for a long time, but was unable to acquire one until the funding was received from the blood relatives. The device did not end the tensions between EATHIM and the Humans, but it did end the war as it automatically defended the Human area from MAD attacks by keeping EATERS from entering the area. This “Fan Shield Diplomacy”**** continues to be used to starve helpless Mosquitoes communities throughout Africa, and the world.

*The decommission of SUCKERS occurred soon after due fatalities from overexposure to the deadly chemical.
**The weapon was most likely designed to recreated the “Dark Force Sith Lightening” found in the 1983 science fiction movie, Star Wars: The Return of the Jedi.
***This invasion route was later shut down, through the use of “post-Christmas wrapping paper”, by a human sympathizer and allied weapons distributor known only by the code-name of “Lesa”.
****The similar “Mosquito Net Diplomacy” is still used in less developed areas to withhold food from the victims.

Mission Update 11: The Island Called Death

2009-04-10T00:44:00.000-07:00

It was December, 4th. We were leaving on a Kenya Airways flight for another video project. Unfortunately, with a scheduling mishap and the lack of advanced notification, we missed every Christmas party and children’s music concert which were scheduled the week we were gone. When I say we missed every Christmas party, I mean that to the utmost extent because we were going to an island where the no one, except foreigners, celebrated Christmas.

There was a local soccer team sitting behind us, who probably never showered, and one of them took off their shoe and stuck their foot in between the side of the airplane and Ted’s chair. For some reason the people sitting in front of us smelled of old dairy product. The mixture of scent which occurred in our general vicinity could only be given the image of a bucket of cheese, aged in a boy’s high school locker room, then found at the end of the year by an unfortunate custodian. Needless to say, it was a much longer flight in nature than duration. When the plane started to descend, I could still only see water through the window. Then a green mountain came into view, it sloped gracefully into the warm water of the Indian Ocean surrounding it. I saw the airport building fly past the window, and then the other end of the mountain plunging into the water. The ocean filled the window view again and I noticed that we didn’t seem to be slowing down very quickly. I looked past the passengers on the other side only to see the ocean view in that window too. We heard the brakes engage and then felt them engage as we squeaked to a halt. As the plane turned around to taxi back to the airport, I watched the landscape rotate. The end of the runway was in plain view with the rest of the ocean behind a patch of grass and a simple concrete barrier with lot of yellow lines and “caution” signs. We wondered if the pilot may have been cutting it close or if it was standard procedure to almost slam into the end of the runway and sink in the Indian Ocean.

As we emerged from the airplane, the humid heat and intense sun hit us like a wave. The air conditioned bus that took us to immigration was like a cold breeze on a summer day, which considering we were in the Southern hemisphere, it was. We had no trouble with lost luggage since there were only two airport buildings* and it would be a challenge to forget which one the incoming luggage goes. Outside was a lot of local ladies with yellow paint all over their faces sitting beneath a canopy tent. They were supposed to be a greeting party for tourists, but they just sat in the shade instead. We met up with one of the missionaries, whom I have named “John” for his protection, and piled ourselves and equipment into a tiny French designed taxi. We drove the the other end of the small island and ran with all the luggage to catch the ferry which took us to the main island.

The name of the island in the local language literally translates into “The Island of Death”. The local people of the island are all Muslim. Their religion is Islam, but there is also a lot of animism and spirit superstition, which easily blends with traditional muslim beliefs into what is called Folk Islam.
They will barter with spirits by performing animal sacrifices on the beach, or buying charms to protect them from curses, which is kind of like paying a con man to stop taking your money. Another interesting part of the culture on the island is that the women own their own houses and can get a divorce whenever they want. The local men can also have multiple wives because they are following the rules of Islam, which means that if a women divorces her husband, he will just leave and go to the house of another one of his wives. Due to the ease and lack of commitment in marriage, there are many divorces on the island. The government on the island is French. The government pours a lot of money into the island to try and make it an attractive tourist area, which includes an abundant quantity of social welfare money to keep the local people from being impoverished. Many people on the island don’t feel the need to work because they can live a moderately comfortable life on only French welfare.

One day, we went to film the daily lives of the people with one of the other missionaries. I will call him “Bob” After filming a group of fishermen coming in after their morning catch, we walked to the market and filmed them bargain and sell the fish, then around the town until lunch.

We ate with a friend of Bob’s, who is a fisherman. His house was a rusty shack built straight on the beach, we sat outside and waited as his two wives cleaned and cooked the fish he caught.When they placed the bowl on the floor**,

I was expecting generally bland, but filling, food as I had eaten in Kenya, but as I took my first bite it was filled with a collision of flavor and a pleasant texture.

The next day, the same fisherman took Andy out on his dug-out canoe to film him fishing for the video (the picture is of Ted going out in a different canoe later in the week).Ted and I watched as Andy became a small silhouette in front of a growing overcast of dark clouds. The ocean began to look rougher, and the clouds looked darker. We saw the fisherman frantically rowing toward shore, racing the storm that was closing in on the small vessel. They reached the shore, and we pulled the boat up the beach and took cover under a large baobab tree just as the storm hit the shoreline in full force. During a lull, we ran with the equipment to the cover of the man’s house. As we waited for the storm to pass, one of the man’s wives brought in a bowl full of green mush and rice, which she promptly set on the floor in front of us.

We looked at each other and then back at the bowl. It looked a bit like the food that I was thinking, “ah, here is the unappetizing green mush that we have been expecting. Those fish yesterday must have been a fluke.” We dived in despite the preconceptions. I was pleasantly surprised as the green mush happened to be laced with shaved pieces of fresh coconut from the island. The mush was also really more of a purée and it complimented the rice.

“Well rice, you certainly make me a filling little dish!”
“Au contraire my green friend! You are the star of this meal!”

Actually I would have stopped eating them if they talked, but they were quite complementary. I discovered over the weekend that people living on islands who are surrounded by exotic fruits and don’t have a lot to do usually figure out how to make interesting and delicious foods. We ate an abundant amount of fresh tropical fruits*** that we had never heard of before, and enjoyed the local specialty hot sauce that makes any meal into a burning inferno of goodness. The unexpected affluence on the island constantly surprised us when seemingly poor hosts would bring out ice cold Cokes from some hidden mini-fridge in the kitchen. The cold drinks were especially appreciated considering the island was so hot that Andy, Ted, and I would already be sweating through our shirts before breakfast was even served.

On Friday, a man named “Baba N” invited us to film a mosque during prayers. We had scouted the location and talked to the Imam**** before coming, but when we arrived, we learned that one man inside did not want us to film. As Baba N said, “It only takes a little bit of gasoline to ruin a whole bag of rice.”

The next day, we walked around a different town and asked around to see if any of the mosques would let us film. After another failed attempt, one mosque gave us permission to film.

They only wanted us to take our shoes off and wash the dirt off our feet before we entered. We obliged and then I stepped over the threshold. It was the first time I had ever been in a mosque.

They began the Salaat, or Muslim prayer, and I pressed the record button on the camera. While standing in a line they began the motions.

They silently muttered the same words. The Imam would make a wail-like sound, then they would change their position. They repeated the process until they were done. The men in the mosque invited us back the next day to film during Eid, the Muslim holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan. When we returned, the mosque had men and boys all dressed up wearing Kofi (prayer caps), robes, and headscarves. The room was filled with men of all ages. As they prepared to begin by getting in rows, one of the mosque leaders gave us some loaner Kofi to wear. Ted was eating up every second of it by taking pictures, and then cracked a joke about how he now had a complete case of photographic evidence that I had converted to Islam. The men began the prayers, doing it the same way they always do it, five times a day, 365 days a year. There were old men with callouses on their foreheads from kneeling with their heads on the carpet so many times.

It is a source of pride for them, they see it as their proof to Allah that they have been a good Muslim and have prayed each day.

When I stood in the back of the room for one shot,

I heard the women of the mosque behind a sheet that was fastened to keep them secluded since they were forbidden to participate in the main room.

After the prayer cycles were finished, the Imam read from the Qu’ran, although most of the people in the room couldn’t understand Arabic. A few older men stayed afterwards to recite the names of Allah. They put a finger on each of their prayer beads so that they would not forget one of the names. We returned to one of the missionaries' houses to eat lunch after shooting the men at the mosque, which sounds really bad out of context of a camera.

Throughout the week, we returned to a very photogenic town, with a large minaret at it’s center. The town was built on a hill that dropped straight into the ocean, so it was a maze of narrow streets and stairways. The roofs were all flat, with construction beams coming out of them so that the people living there could always build another story if they received enough money. We asked one family if we could set up on their roof and take a time lapse of the sun setting behind the mosque, they agreed, and even let us return a few times to try and catch the most dramatic sunset.

In the video we produced from the trip we used a theme of feet.

Feet are considered dirty and and despicable in Islam because the influence of middle eastern cultures. The detest of feet dates back to before the 1st century, and continues today in places, such as Africa, where people still walk through sewage and dirt in sandals or bare feet. When Jesus washed the feet of his disciples like a slave, it had considerably more cultural value, than what most westerners can identify with these days.

After he sharpened his panga (machete), we went with the farmer named “Baba Z” to his shamba (farm). On the way, an old man stopped us, and started talking to Bob in the local language. I wasn’t paying much attention until suddenly Bob started laughing, and then he turned to me and said that the old man thinks I look young and he wants to know if I am going to marry a local girl because he has a daughter. Then the rest of us started laughing. I don’t remember if I actually said it, or if I was just thinking it but, “Tell him sorry, but I don’t own any cows.”, definitely crossed my mind. Men offering their daughters in marriage actually happened a few times that week. I guess I must have looked qualified and available. After discussing more dowry options, the old man gave up and we were on our way.

We walked across a beach, then turned off onto an inland path. The scarcely tread path wove into the heavy tropical foliage. The sun glinted through the trees creating a green glow as we followed Baba Z deeper into the jungle. The environment looked like the setting from a pirate movie where they land on an island to search for buried treasure. Lemurs jumped through the trees above us and made snorting sounds. We walked around yellow spider webs with huge “Pee-in-your-eye” spiders waiting for an unsuspecting insect to catch. We stopped to film one while Baba Z was clearing weeds around his banana trees. Bob even threw it a cricket which it caught with lightening speed and tore off its legs, then started wrapping it up for consumption later. Speaking of food, we ate an abundant amount of fruit during the excursion. By the end of the trip I had probably ate at least 4 or 5 exotic kinds of fruit that I had never even heard of before. We had many that I had eaten before too; such as mango, pineapple, and coconut, but never as fresh. It was the most fresh fruit that one could possible eat, because Baba Z literally cut it off the tree or stalk and then handed it to us. He climbed up a coconut tree using footholds he had cut with his panga. To open the coconuts he cut off the external covering, then cut a small chunk out of the hard shell and let us drink the coconut water inside. When it was empty, he cut it in half and carved the meat out for us to eat.
After a few large pieces, I had enough coconut, so I saved a piece for the lemurs on the way back. We found where the largest family of them was located in the trees above, and Bob started making lemur noises to attract them while I waved the meat around in my hand. The only reason I was actually standing under the tree waving a piece of coconut and attempting to make snort like grunting sounds at a family of “arboreal primates” was because we were notified that a few have been known to act like New York City pigeons and eat right in front of humans. Unfortunately, these mammals were too wild. They responded to Bob’s grunting with a round of snorts that echoed through the trees overhead. I put the piece of coconut on top of a thick cut off bamboo trunk, then moved back to see if they would take the bait. Bob doubled his efforts of mimicking their sounds which only seemed to rile them up more. I was looking up into the trees where the lemurs where jumping around, when I saw something fall from above. My lightening quick reflexes kicked in and turned away at the last second. Something gooey and wet hit my shoulders. I looked at Andy who had been filming the whole event.
“Andy, did I just get just get urinated on?” I asked.
He checked my back.
“No Tim. That looks pretty solid!” He replied, then wiped if off with a stick and a leaf.
Everyone started laughing.
“Tim, the good news is that you are officially part of a minority group. How many people in the world have been pooped on by lemurs?” Ted joked.
“Yeah, maybe I can apply for affirmative action. I can see it now, ‘Minority Rights for Lemur Dung Attack Victims’. I think it is quite catchy.” I agreed. Then we walked all the way back to town. Back at the house, I changed my clothes and took a cold shower*****.

At the end of the week, saying good bye to the missionary families was hardest for the kids. John’s boys had plenty of fun wrestling around with Andy and I during the week. Bob’s girls had asked me what turned out to be the question of the week, “are you married yet?”, and his youngest girl gave me an embarrassing gift before I left when she found out I wasn’t yet.
Bob’s youngest, a 2 year old boy, will be remembered by our team for his unique and unbeatable greeting. Picture a little munchkin running up to you with nothing on but a t-shirt with his eyes as large as possible saying in a high pitched squeal, “Hiiiiiiiiii! wa’doin?”

Before we got on the ferry to take us to the airport, we looked around for souvenirs. Most of the available items were actually imported from Kenya, which made us laugh considering most of the tourists coming to the island would have no idea and buy them at 10 times the cost of what we can buy them for down the street from our houses. I decided that most of what I was bringing away from the trip was the memories and experiences from the different culture. So I settled for a small wood carving of a small brown animal, tail upturned, known as a lemur. I can be very sentimental at times.

Soon enough we were in an air conditioned airplane watching the small green island disappear into the surrounding blue landscape. A rich man and his wife were sitting next to me for the first leg of the trip. I think they must have been used to first class, or at least that is how they acted, especially when Ted leaned his chair slightly back and they began to complain between the two of them. I just laughed to myself because they were taking up all of personal room by sitting cowboy style and commandeering the arm rests. After 2 minutes into the flight, I put myself to sleep to escape their constant complaining. I woke up before we landed on a different island for refueling. There was a note on my lap that read, “wake up!”, I looked to the seats in front of me where I was greeted by the grinning faces of Ted and Andy. On the way back to Nairobi, the Kenyan Airways flight attendant came down the row and asked me if I wanted fish or beef. I was excited about returning to Kenya, so I responded in my most animated and spunk filled Kiswalhili I could muster, “Nyama Choma!” Which resulted in Ted saying, “Nice!”, from the seat in front of me, and caught the attendant smiling for the rest of the flight back. It made me feel better to brighten her day, especially since I was headed back to celebrate my first Christmas away from my biological family.

*The two buildings were called “departures” and “arrivals”.
**It is part of the culture to eat and cook out of dishes on the floor.
***The fruits we ate on the trip included: Custard apple fruit, jack fruit, papaya, mango (ripe and unripe), banana (fresh and fried both green and sweet), litchi, bread fruit, pineapple, lemon (a local kind that tasted like candy), and orange.
****An Imam is the leader of a mosque
*****They didn’t actually have any hot water because no one wants to have a heater since the island is so hot.

Walking In Shadow

2009-03-08T06:34:00.000-07:00

Here is the video from the island that we travelled to before Christmas. I hope you enjoy, but more importantly, I hope it makes you think.

Mission Update 10: Tea Time in Kibera

2009-02-25T23:04:00.000-08:00

It was an October afternoon, I was excited about being a guest in a Kenyan home. We drove to Kibera, where Wycliffe, a friend of ours, warmly greeted each of us at the door and presented his recently acquired couch, the key piece of furniture in his new home. He told us how blessed he was to have space for one. Children from the surrounding houses started to stare at us through the open door.

A train started rolling behind his compound, rattling the row of one room mabati, or corrugated steel, homes. We came for chai, but they had held off eating lunch so they could feed us too.

As his wife, Celena, began to prepare food on the njiko, a single propane burner, the house heated up. Wycliffe turned on his fan, which he had ingeniously created from the thrown away pieces of a fan head mounted on a small motor with half a car axle for the base. We were glad his electricity worked in the new bigger house.

His old house was about the size of a walk-in closet, maybe smaller, depending on the size of your walk-in closet. He moved because his last house was too dangerous. A few men had robbed them of the few things they owned when Celena was pregnant with their son, Brian. Before we ate, he brought a basin and a thermos of water, which he poured for us to wash our hands. Although it probably was not the cleanest water, we still washed to not be rude. We ate the wet spinach-like mush, similar to sukuma, using the very bland dry mush, ugali, as a utensil. This process involves mashing the ugali into a scoop shape with one’s hands, then grabbing the other food with it.

The food was not that bad, although I did get sick from it a few days later. While I sat at home later, feeling disgusting, I grasped a sense of peace, because it was still worth it to experience a small slice of that kind of life.

I returned to visit Wycliffe, Celena, and Brian when my family came to visit, in January.

Wycliffe told us his story. He is a trusted gardener for many missionaries in AIM. But before he became that, he had been a homeless street kid, sniffing glue to get high, trying to forget how much he was hungry. He joined a gang that took turns stealing money or food so that they could all eat, but when it was his turn to steal he couldn’t bring himself to follow through. The leader of the gang said that he would show Wycliffe how to steal. The next day, while Wycliffe was watching, the other kid tried to grab a woman’s purse, but she held on to it and started hitting him. The people around him became a mob and started beating him to death. Wycliffe left him to the angry crowd and never went back to the gang again. Later, a Kenyan Christian man started paying Wycliffe for odd jobs around the yard, teaching him to have a good work ethic and valuable skills. Eventually Wycliffe decided to follow Christ.

The gap between the person who he was, and who I know him to be now is vast. He is trusted because he is both honorable and responsible. His story is one of redemption. I am thrilled that my family got to meet him.

Mission Update 9: Contemplations in Kapsowar, Kenya

2009-02-11T01:08:00.000-08:00

I was dreaming about all the possibilities of my future; college, career, marriage, starting a family - then the present literally hit me as my head knocked into the car window. I fell back asleep, until another pothole threw my head back into the metal safety bar behind me. There were mountains rising up out of a dusty brown landscape, and potholes trying to contend with the mountains. The only reason I was even attempting to sleep on the Kenyan roads was because I had stayed up the whole night before to finish my important early college applications*. After saying “ouch” in my head, and probably out loud too, I remembered where I was. I was traveling northwest in Ted’s white Land Rover, with his family, to the mission hospital in Kapsowar, Kenya to film a personal video for one of the doctors, while Andy was staying in Nairobi to finish scoring the music for the Rwanda video. After recollecting my thoughts, I realized just how much my head really hurt. Fortunately, I shook off the pain and was still tired enough to fall back asleep.

Halfway there, I woke up as we stopped in a town for lunch. When we entered the restaurant, there were a few older AIM missionaries that the Rurups knew, just about to finish their meal. After being introduced to me, they remembered my name because they had been praying for me when I came to Africa. I knew I was in good company there.

We were excited to see that the menu had fajitas, with tortillas and guacamole, so we ordered three for Ted, Liisa, and I, while the kids stuck to chicken and chapatis. The first sign of trouble was that the waiter kept calling the fajitas (Fa-Hee-tuz = Correct), fajitas (Fa-GEE-tas = Cultural misinterpretation). The second sign of trouble was that they made the fajitas on Kenyan time, so by the time they brought out anything, the kids were already done eating their meals. The third was that they never actually brought out the tortillas. Instead, they brought out a bowl with the inside part of the fajitas. In fact, when we asked if they were going to bring out the tortillas, they said yes, then brought out the guacamole instead. When consumed, the fajitas tasted more like a greasy sweet and sour pork dish that one finds at a cheap chinese food joint in the mall. So we ate our sweet and sour non-tortilla fajitas, and were thankful that they actually brought us any food

I was awake for the rest of the trip, since a partial hungry state helps that kind of thing. Besides, the Rurups were having so much fun singing, “On the Road Again”, which was quite entertaining with the almost 2 year old trying to join along, although he didn’t know any of the words. We drove through part of the Rift Valley, passed through the equator, and then started swerving up one of the mountain ranges. At the top, we could look out at the valley from both sides. At this point I could make an analogy about life and the vastness of the rift being like the future ahead and past that I could reflect on with a little bit about us climbing the hill together for emotional effect, but then we started going down hill for a while, and that makes the analogy both uninspiring and really pretty depressing. We did start another long climb up another mountain range though, so the analogy isn’t all that bad

It was dark by the time we were getting near the town, and we were on a very creepy road that swerved through the hills. We passed a random car that was attempting to drive through the pitch black forest without any lights on. We slowed down so that they could follow us into town. Then we arrived at the Africa Inland Church (AIC) Kapsowar Mission Hospital. Alysia, the wife of Dr. Paul**, met us at the gate to the hospital housing area. We unloaded all the equipment into the house where the Rurups were staying. Then Alysia showed me the house where I was staying

We walked through the pitch dark towards a light coming through a window. The house, which we entered, was larger than the one I was currently staying in with the Brown’s. Basically, I had gone from a crowded home of 6, to a loaded car of 7, to a completely empty house that felt huge. I had not been in such a quiet environment for a very long time. To be completely honest, I was creeped out. So, after some self reassuring, and checking every room in the house for dead bodies, I happily settled down in the servants quarters, after double checking the locks and putting my knife close enough for comfort. Throughout the week, the lights would go out without warning, causing me to expect a group of thieves or bandits to break in and attack me.***

The next morning, I walked out of the house, and looked out at the green hills that overlapped each other until they reached a mountain range in the cloudy distance.

In this part, the audience cries, “Tim put an analogy about how you didn’t see the view the night before because your vision was shrouded in darkness, and that is somehow like your life!”

I naturally reply, “I’ll spare you. I think that had more to do with the fact that it was night time and I was tired.”
“But that’s not very poetic!” “I know, sleep deprivation is about as poetic as greasy sweet and sour non-tortilla fajitas.

Not much happened that day. We toured the hospital and met Paul. He is an American, but he grew up in the UK so he has a British accent, which for some reason is more interesting than a British man who lived in the US and has an American accent. Later that day there was a going away party for Dr. Steve, who was moving to Machakos to teach at Scott Theological College. I told him to watch out for the purple-sweater-wearing kissing man, then told him it was a long story when he gave me a strange look. Overall, the party was extremely photogenic and emotional considering that I had deep relationships with everyone there. Ted had to tell me to sit down and calm myself before I got stuck in a group of overexcited doctors who may accidently break some of the camera equipment.****

That night, we ate a Kenyan dinner in honor of Dr. Steve. Surprisingly, Rae from Pearl River (see update #2) was there, visiting different ministries going on in Africa. I brought her up to speed on what I had been doing from last time we met. Considering that I was still sleep deprived and she was jet-lagged, I don’t think either of us remember what was said.

We went to the Kapsowar AIC that Sunday. It was filled with Kenyans from the town and nursing school that is a part of the hospital, so we took the opportunity to get more footage of African churches. Unfortunately, the battery died on one of the cameras, so I had to run and get the one that was charging at the house. While running, I realized that the altitude in Kapsowar is at least 3,000 feet higher than Nairobi. Which is around 8,000 feet higher than normal for me. So simply put, with the combined increase in altitude, the running uphill, and all the mud I was attempting to avoid, I realized why so many good long distance runners come from Kenya. Fortunately, I also realized that my lungs were used enough to the altitude that I was able to keep running both ways. I still felt like one out of shape mzungu as I sucked air and changed the battery on the camera, but I got back before Chara and Julianna, Paul and Alysia’s little girls, sang for the congregation. Mission accomplished.

That night, as I entered my big, dark house, there was a scuffling sound in the bathroom, and the light was flickering. I peered in, knife first, and saw a bird wildly flying around, running into the light and mirror. Images from Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” filled my mind, and I chuckled as I grabbed a broom and a bucket. I closed all the interior doors of the house to contain the creature, during which I found a layer of freshly strewn soot; where the bird had entered through the chimney. Then, started a long operation of chasing it up and down the stairs until I finally managed to corner it upstairs and trapped it under the bucket. I then realized that I was upstairs, and couldn’t take my foot off the top of the bucket without the bird tipping it and starting the whole process again. So I called Ted to come and rescue me. He found a metal sign hanging on one of the doors, and we slid it underneath the bucket, then carried it to the front door and let the aviary invader free. The bird, being a very intelligent animal, flew to the bathroom window and sat looking through. Maybe it dropped a contact or, more likely, its brain.

At 5 something the next morning, I got a call from Ted, “Get dressed and over to my house! We are filming a surprise C-section!” I was up before you could say, “Caesarian”. Paul and a nurse were wheeling the mother from the regular delivery building to the, “theatre”, also known as operating room, which was uphill and also an entirely different building. We put on scrubs and asked if it was safe for us to come in the operating room yet.

Obviously, there had been some miscommunication because when they told us to enter the room, the woman was as bare naked as the baby that was about to come out of her. After a few awkward moments, we went back into the staging area to wait. The next time we asked very explicitly, “is she covered yet?”, then re-entered the operating room and started filming. We decided to interview Paul in the middle of the surgery, asking him complicated questions about the hospital and his future plans. I am entirely joking here, of course, we did no such thing. I was, however, filming Paul at work when suddenly a newborn baby appeared in the camera viewing screen. I did a double-take and saw Paul hand the nurse a baby. It wasn’t that I didn’t know she was having a baby, but the suddenness of the situation caught me off guard. At one moment, there was a few doctors, two media guys, and a pregnant women with an unborn child in the room. Another moment later, and there were the same amount of people in the room, but one of them had, in a moment between thoughts, gone from unborn to newborn. “Its a girl”, Paul said quite disinterested. It was his third C-section already that morning. The woman had requested that Paul tie her tubes because it was her 8th child, but according to Kenyan law, he couldn’t do that without consent of her husband. The response from the front desk came just in time for them to start,

“thou shalt not touch”, which I am sure isn’t one of the 10 commandments. Paul and the other doctors looked at each other in frustration.

“Does he know that she requested it?” Paul asked the nurse on the phone.

“Yes, he says he wants to try for another boy.”

Paul rolled his eyes and started the process of stitching up the women’s uterus. He turned to us after a few long minutes and told us that everything interesting was done. We left, taking off the scrubs, and pulling on our muddy boots. We walked back to the house. “Well”, I turned to Ted, “that is one way to start a Monday morning.” The rest of the day was as uneventful and boring as any other Monday.

The next morning, Ted sent me with Liisa, Alysia, her oldest son; who was only 2 years old, and a few Kenyan ladies to visit one of the first Christian women in Kapsowar, Mama Fifi. I was running both the Nikon and the video camera, so I had to anticipate which device would gain more beneficial media for OFM. It felt good to be trusted with expensive equipment and the responsibility to collect usable material. The main purpose of the short trip was to interview Mama Fifi for an article about the effect of the hospital on the surrounding community.

Considering I didn’t know a lot of Kiswahili, or any of the local language, the trip was mostly uneventful. I did learn, through translation, that Mama Fifi was the first woman to become a Christian in Kapsowar, after the missionary hospital arrived, and then also the first mother to decide not to circumcise her daughters, which was against the cultural tradition of the time. Her house was a stately, almost British style house, but she slept in a small hut down the hill, on a traditional mud bed.

The contrast between the beginning of a life the morning before, and the story of a life near the end the next day invoked some intense reflections that I will not attempt to repeat in this format. On a lighter note, Kenyan hospitality is even more important out of Nairobi, which meant that in any house we entered, the host was culturally obligated to provide chai. Any potential hosts also felt committed to inviting us into their homes. Also, when a guest is finished with their first cup, the host will fill up their cup again, even if they ask, or in my case, plead for only, “kidogo”, a very small amount. This cycle meant that I consumed around 8 cups of highly caffeinated and sugar-saturated chai, as we hiked up the hill back to the hospital. Needless to say, I was wired.

We used the rest of the afternoon spending time with, as well as filming, Paul and Alysia’s family. Including their twin baby boys, Jacob and David; which I must admit, were adorable. Ted and Liisa’s kids enjoyed their time. Jonathan and Collin played football, only known as soccer in America, with a group of boys from the town. Teah, who refers to me as, “Mr Tim”, played with Chara and Julianna. Little Timmy, the Rurup’s youngest, played with Stephen. That night, after filming a women’s Bible study, it began to rain heavily. Ted and I started to run back to his house since we didn’t want the equipment to get wet. I was following right behind him, when suddenly he jumped sideways. In that instant I saw the two posts with a single thread of barbed wire between them, practically invisible in the rain. I just managed to change direction fast enough and not slip into the wire, but it snagged my shirt, and ripped a substantial chunk.

On Wednesday, November 5th, 2008, Ted and I went to film the chapel time at the nursing school. At the beginning, they announced the election of Barack Obama, which the resulted in a volley of excited shouts. The student announcing continued by saying, “Now that Obama is the President of America, he will be moving to the White House, which can now be the...”, one of the Kenyan residency doctors interrupted him, “the Black House!” The room erupted in another volley of laughter. Later that day, I laughed again when I had my first opportunity to check e-mail that week. Everyone who sent me e-mails that day told me the election results, even though I had probably found out a few hours before them. Unless, of course, they stayed up all night; which would not have surprised me considering the significant nature of the election.

Although Kenyan President Kibaki announced a national holiday, the work at the hospital continued, due to the fact that people don’t stop getting injured or sick on national holidays. Considering our work being tied to the hospital, OFM also worked that day. We interviewed Paul, which involved walking backwards through the mud with the steady-cam, and went to Pastor Charles’ house, who is blind.***** That night Ted and I went to a community prayer meeting, where the church and community leaders met. Afterwards, Salie; one of the Mama Fifi’s daughters, invited us to have a cup of chai at her house. I smiled and tried to drink my cup as slowly as possible. It was late, and it started to rain, so we said goodbye, and her husband showed us to the path back to the hospital.

We walked through the drizzling rain, thick mud, and deep fog that surrounded us. As much as we try to anticipate the directions the road will take, in the end, the thick darkness ahead strips foresight to chance. Yet, we know that there is a finish to the journey; a place of warmth, with friendly faces, and rest. The promise of that goal is why we endure, marching in the elements, knowing that things might get better, but not knowing exactly how much bull feces we trudged through, before we get home and see it all over our shoes.

We celebrated Little Timmy’s 2nd Birthday the next day. I was the honorary photographer. Then, on Friday, we returned to Nairobi, with a quick stop for me to take a picture that inspired me. A silver sky, reflected by a silver lake. It reminded me that in all my plans for the future, God is greater and has a better plan.

Although I had built up a lot of stress about my future at the beginning of that week, a few months later my fears were quelled, when I found out that I had not only been accepted to my two top schools, but the University of Michigan had also presented a substantial scholarship to me. The day before my birthday on Feb 9th, I also received notice that my Marine option NROTC Scholarship was reinstated. As I wrote this update, I thought about that picture.

*Which took especially long since the internet was so slow that e-mails would take at least 10 minutes to send, and web pages would take 20 to load.

**We were making the personal video for Dr. Paul and his family before they returned to the states.

***You could call me paranoid with an overactive imagination, and I wouldn’t call you a liar.

****Ted actually did tell me to sit down, but it was because he didn’t think we needed any more footage of doctors making speeches. Especially since we already had an exclusive interview with the guest of honor.

*****Literally, not figuratively.

Off to the African tropics

2008-12-03T01:09:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-17T22:39:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-16T06:44:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-07T11:34:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-25T20:08:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-20T08:23:00.000-07:00

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"

2008-09-22T11:08:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-19T09:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Mission Update 2: The Long Journey

2008-09-12T00:21:00.000-07:00

The orientation at AIM Headquarters went excellently. I was both informed and inspired by the sessions ranging from travel, finances, and even culture training. It was really beneficial for preparing me for trip that I have now embarked. Currently, I am writing on a layover in London at Heathrow airport. There was only a minimal of confusion of which terminal I was supposed to be at bu I'm in the right one now. Call me an eternal optimist, but at least I had the opportunity of seeing more of the airport and get used to the left side of the road deal that I will be living with, for 9 months, henceforth.

My flight across the Atlantic was long, but I enjoyed the feeling of superiority as I sat near the front of the airplane in business class, declining the multiple offers of champagne from the stewardess' and catching up on the stocks from my personal adjustable flat screen monitor... I am totally pulling your leg here. I'm a missionary (I didn't even get a window seat). Actually the guy next to me hadn't cleaned himself in a while, which I noticed at first but by the end of the flight I couldn't tell anymore (probably because we both smelled the same by then). I will fit right in smell wise when I arrive in Nairobi :) .

I find it humorous how they herd passengers in "economy" through all the "business", "club", "first", "gold class", etc., etc. seats to show you what you could have if you weren't "ordinary". I believe that British Airways is especially excellent at this skill because they are used to the social class system and showing off royalty :) . I actually think that they have developed new techniques of stuffing more humans into a certain amount of space never before seen by the human race, while increasing the upper "levels" of the craft to provide more and more space for the increasing call for more luxury in flight. Soon children will count as "carry-ons" and will have to fit in the specific child compartment or underneath the seat (I believe the Japanese may have tried to use this technique a few years ago). There will be signs outside of the terminal saying things such as "your child must be this short to enter the aircraft, otherwise you will have to return them to the security gate and check them as an express shipping baggage." (I'm not actually complaining, I love flying enough that I am allowed to poke some fun at the inevitable downsides of it... besides it could solve overpopulation and the obesity epidemic too.)

On a much more serious note, I had my first cultural experience although I was still in London. While sitting and waiting at the terminal for my Nairobi flight's gate number to appear, I saw a Muslim girl wearing traditional robes while traveling with who I'm guessing is her older brother, whom she walked two steps behind. It turned out that she was also on the same flight as I because while I waited for it to start boarding, she crossed the room to talk to another girl who was wearing a traditional headscarf (sitting only a few seats away from myself). Then she asked her if she was traveling to Kenya also and about if they needed to check in or anything special before the flight, and the other girl told her they didn't. What struck me next was that the fully robed girl told the other one that her brother had made her come ask. I found this interesting because it is was part of a culture that I had never seen with my own eyes. The brother sent his sister to go talk to the only other Muslim looking person on a flight full of mostly tourists and missionaries. He also didn't ask himself because it would have been improper for him to talk to a female. All I can say is that I am in for a wild experience once I immerse myself in Kenyan culture.

Before the end of my flight to Nairobi, which was also long, but much more comfortable since no one was sitting next to me, during the landing cycle, I looked out the window and the land was completely black. No town lights. No road lamps. Not even a few camping fires. Everything was pitch black until we got closer to the airport, where I began to see clusters of randomly assorted lights. Instead of a gradual increase of lights before getting to the city (as it is in the US) the lights were gradually larger random clusters. There were many lights I could tell were electric, most likely building parking lots, but then the rest were flickering and inconsistent. Then I figure out what the clusters were. They are slums that are surrounding the city. Slums that people cannot afford any electronic lights so they have barrel fires. The largest cluster of fire lights that stretched for miles was what I am assuming is Kibera, one of the largest slums in all of Africa, right in the middle of it all.

Getting through customs was interesting. At first I stood in the Non- African passport line, filled with tourists, and a couple obvious Americans (myself probably being one of them). There were at least 5 or 6 other lines, all marked with different signs such as East African Passports Only, Kenyan Passports Only, Flight Crew, etc. I was in the longest line, and I expected to be there for a while. But I discovered that rules are subject to change in the third world. A worker at the airport told a few others and I to go in the East African Passport only line because it would be faster. It would never happen in a US airport, but it actually made a lot of sense. Why make more loud and impatient Americans stay longer in your airport just because they are supposed to stay in their designated line?

My reunion with the Brown's was wonderful and all the kids were definitely older. Robbie and Avery had fun lifting up my packed bike, and Sydney is not a shy baby anymore. She kept telling me all about my room at their house and then fell asleep on my lap during the drive to the guesthouse I will be staying for a week for more orientation. I expect to be going through a lot of culture shock soon and I'm sure I will have many more stories to tell.

Mission Update 1: The Calm Before

2008-09-09T07:55:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone!

I am here at the Africa Inland Mission US Headquarters in Pearl River, NY. I just arrived today by Greyhound bus and my trip went fairly smoothly. Today, I mostly relaxed and rested before dinner, which felt very home cooked, although I eally am not home anymore. I ate with my short term coordinator; Na'im, the short term team coordinator; Rae, and a team of

missionaries that will be going through orientation with me before they leave for their mission field.

This place is very comfortable. The landscape surrounding it is very beautiful, but not distracting; which is important because this place is meant to help anyone leaving to focus and prepare for the journey ahead.

The journey ahead. That is foremost in my mind at this moment. The calmness of this place feels exactly like the calm before a thunderstorm. The kind that is both frightening and eternally exciting. The kind that changes the landscape around you by stripping away all, except for the strongest trees and the sturdiest houses. Taking away the brush that is no longer meant to exist and defining only the most entrenched objects that will never be uprooted. I believe this place will help prepare me to be as clay (Isaiah 64:8), so that I can be properly re-formed by the hands of the potter.

As I sit here, typing on my laptop, it is hard for me to describe all the emotions that are in me. I think that I am mostly excited because of the great jump my life is about to take; my own personal epic, if you will.

Thanks for everyone for your prayers and support. Thank you and God bless.

Love,

Tim Lang