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

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)

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

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

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

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

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.