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.

Mission Update 5: Thought Showers Over Rwanda

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

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

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

Habari zenu!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mission Update 2: The Long Journey

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

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