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

Habari zenu!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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