So, I think that this post portrays my experience in rural kenya far better than the previous one. It was difficult to convey the variety of emotions that were felt throughout the adventure, but I think this does a relatively good job.
Enjoy.
“Go, tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere; go, tell it on the mountain, that Jesus Christ is born.”
A camera captures a hazy image. As the blurred image becomes clearer, you notice that amidst the sleet, rain and dark fog, a lush, green mountain is ensconced in the shadows of the tempestuous night sky. Quickly, the camera focuses in on a pack of five, traveling up a dampened path, their shoes muddied and their bodies drenched. Of the five, one in particular stands out. Her flaxen hair is messily arranged on the top of her head and her ashen complexion, ripe with the evidence of rosy exhaust on her cheeks, is speckled with wet earth. The mzungu, a word meant to identify white people, but when is literally translated in Kiswahili means, “someone who roams around aimlessly,” was doing just that, in the name of Jesus Christ. And that mzungu was me.
During my four-month stay in Kenya with American University’s abroad program, myself and fifteen other students traveled five hours from our residence in the country’s capitol, Nairobi, to tropical Western Kenya. The purpose: a homestay in rural Kenya. I was placed with Ebby, a jovial woman with faith so enthusiastic that made Pat Robertson and the rest of the 700 Club’s entourage look like heathens, instead of evangelists. As I am a practicing Christian myself, Lutheran to be specific, I figured that I would be able to relate to this woman, at least somewhat, because of our shared faith. I have a decent grasp on the Bible. When I am home we pray before dinner and go to church on Sundays. Well, as it turns out, we were not quite as similar as I had (naïvely) expected (hence the climbing of the mountain). But I will get to that in a little bit.
Everyday before dawn, Ebby awoke and began a three-hour marathon of passionate, animated and loud prayers. The first morning I awoke in a panic. I thought Ebby was having an argument with some unidentifiable person or that she was crying out for help. Grabbing my glasses and flash light, I began untangling myself from my mosquito net, preparing myself to rush to Ebby’s rescue. However, I managed to tangle myself in my mosquito net even more. I began to listen more closely, my modest understanding of Kiswahili allowed me to deduce that the frequency of the words baba (meaning father), Jehovah (meaning Jehovah [this one was not as hard to translate]), mzuri (meaning good) and amani (meaning peace), that Ebby was praying.
Enjoy.
“Go, tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere; go, tell it on the mountain, that Jesus Christ is born.”
A camera captures a hazy image. As the blurred image becomes clearer, you notice that amidst the sleet, rain and dark fog, a lush, green mountain is ensconced in the shadows of the tempestuous night sky. Quickly, the camera focuses in on a pack of five, traveling up a dampened path, their shoes muddied and their bodies drenched. Of the five, one in particular stands out. Her flaxen hair is messily arranged on the top of her head and her ashen complexion, ripe with the evidence of rosy exhaust on her cheeks, is speckled with wet earth. The mzungu, a word meant to identify white people, but when is literally translated in Kiswahili means, “someone who roams around aimlessly,” was doing just that, in the name of Jesus Christ. And that mzungu was me.
During my four-month stay in Kenya with American University’s abroad program, myself and fifteen other students traveled five hours from our residence in the country’s capitol, Nairobi, to tropical Western Kenya. The purpose: a homestay in rural Kenya. I was placed with Ebby, a jovial woman with faith so enthusiastic that made Pat Robertson and the rest of the 700 Club’s entourage look like heathens, instead of evangelists. As I am a practicing Christian myself, Lutheran to be specific, I figured that I would be able to relate to this woman, at least somewhat, because of our shared faith. I have a decent grasp on the Bible. When I am home we pray before dinner and go to church on Sundays. Well, as it turns out, we were not quite as similar as I had (naïvely) expected (hence the climbing of the mountain). But I will get to that in a little bit.
Everyday before dawn, Ebby awoke and began a three-hour marathon of passionate, animated and loud prayers. The first morning I awoke in a panic. I thought Ebby was having an argument with some unidentifiable person or that she was crying out for help. Grabbing my glasses and flash light, I began untangling myself from my mosquito net, preparing myself to rush to Ebby’s rescue. However, I managed to tangle myself in my mosquito net even more. I began to listen more closely, my modest understanding of Kiswahili allowed me to deduce that the frequency of the words baba (meaning father), Jehovah (meaning Jehovah [this one was not as hard to translate]), mzuri (meaning good) and amani (meaning peace), that Ebby was praying.
I settled back into my bed and continued to listen, drawn in by the intensity in her voice. She was no longer speaking in her sweet, melodious tone, but instead, the house vibrated as she produced deep, guttural sounds. I silently marveled at her dedication to God. I have often struggled with my faith, combating the modern relevance of specific ideals and morals a decade of Sunday school had attempted to engrain in me. There, in Ebby’s four-room, clay hut, she was not struggling with the Bible’s view of modern, social issues, like pre-martial sex, abortion or gay rights. She was not damning non-believers to a life in Hell or cursing her hardships. Instead, she was thanking him for the gifts he had bestowed upon her and for the beauty of the world around her. The absence of anger and prominence of praise was astounding and inspiring. Even at the break of dawn. She was not going to whisper her prayers merely because she had a stranger in her home.
During the majority of my stay in Western Kenya, it rained. Now, I am not talking about April showers that bring May flower’s or a warm afternoon drizzle. No, I am talking about the rain that Forest Gump explained during the characters fictitious tour in Vietnam in Forest Gump. I am talking about the kind of rain that the band “Toto” is blessing in the chorus of their 1982 hit, Africa. It was the kind of rain that you could smell coming. Rain that turned the sky colors that you began to think, "you know what, maybe Harold Camping was on to something when he said that the world is ending." That kind of rain The first full day, the rainstorms deterred Ebby from the embarking on the long walk to her churches nightly bible study. I was relieved. Though I was growing accustom to her religious activities, I had doubt in my ability to fake a polite disposition to an entire congregation during an hour-long bible study. So, when we were met with rain the next night, I was again thrilled at the sound of the drops hitting the tin roof. The echoes of those drops were a false sense of security. Skipping one day was one thing, in Ebby’s eyes. But missing two? Well that was out of the question.
Thus began our hour-long trek that acted as an introduction to this article. I was livid, absolutely livid. My black sweatshirt was drenched, my glasses were becoming opaque as the heat from my skin clashed with the cold air, one of the four shirts I brought for this week of adventures was clinging to my moist skin and one of my two skirts was becoming translucent as I dragged my mud-caked Nike sneakers up the mountain. I muttered under my breath, “I’m not even allowed to go outside at this time in Nairobi,” and continued to feel sorry for myself the rest of the trip. Upon reaching the church, which was beautifully situated among the trees, now that I look back, I passive-aggressively smiled and greeted the others and inelegantly sat on the couch. The supercilious Pastor who greeted me as Lola the Quaker, after misunderstanding when I explained that I was actually Laura, the Lutheran did not remedy my mood. Despite my contempt for the entire situation, I participated in the bible study as Lola the Quaker, regardless of my differing interpretations of what the Pastor was saying. I complimented the porridge and enthusiastically snapped photos of those who were in attendance. By the end, my smile was less forced and I think I even smiled when a little girl asked if she could touch my hair. However, I was determined to be in a bad mood, so I ignored the joy I was beginning to feel, merely to spite myself.
As we began the unavoidable hike back to the village, I let out a relatively loud huff, a huff that I had not intended to be audible. Ebby quickly turned and asked if I was okay and if I was happy. My inner dialogue was screaming, “well, I am soaking wet and my teeth will not stop chattering. I am hungry. I am exhausted. I do not like all of these strange noises I am hearing in the dark. I cannot see a damn thing and I am not sure if I have enough dry clothes to wear tomorrow. Pooooooooor me.” “Oh Ebby, I am wonderful. Thank you so much for taking me to meet your friends,” I replied. Her smile was radiant, metaphorically brightening the darkness the surrounded us in the dense woods around our waterlogged path.
My verbal response and Ebby’s reaction acted as a solvent and dissolved the ungrateful, churlish thoughts that had flashed across my mind moments before. She had shared her culture with me, and I had internally complained about it. If she allowed every rainstorm to prevent her from embarking on her journey up the mountain, she would have to live the majority of her life on hold. She explained to me that she had been telling her congregation about my upcoming arrival for week and how excited they all had been to share the word of God with me.
My heart and head were screaming, “YOU ARE A HORRIBLE PERSON FOR BEING SO SELFISH! You didn’t even finish the porridge in a sign of respect! You should be so ashamed!” I was so ashamed. Growing up in such a homogeneous town, I yearned for exceptional experiences; I wanted to do everything that no one else had done. Had I really become so sophomoric in what activities I was willing and unwilling to partake in that I had pouted when I had to take one single walk in the rain? By now I recognize that I am not going to melt. Hell, the Wicked Witch in the classic film (and novel) The Wizard of Oz technically does not even melt if you subscribe to Gregory Maguire's modern interpretation of the tale in his book, Wicked. I had failed to embrace everything Ebby and Kenya had already taught me. It cannot be about what you do not have and what you want, but instead, about what you do have and who you are with. I forgot to look at the beauty of it all. I had closed my mind before considering that I could enjoy this little mountain adventure. How many other people can say that they climbed a mountain during a beautiful but violent act of Mother Nature, adopted an alternate identity, explored religion while struggling with language and cultural barriers and did this in Kenya, at the age of 21.
Perhaps not all mzungu’s are meant to get wet, muddy, a little frightened and thrust out of their comfort zone. However, in the case of Lola the Quaker, the pious hike in the dark is just the beginning of her adventures.
During the majority of my stay in Western Kenya, it rained. Now, I am not talking about April showers that bring May flower’s or a warm afternoon drizzle. No, I am talking about the rain that Forest Gump explained during the characters fictitious tour in Vietnam in Forest Gump. I am talking about the kind of rain that the band “Toto” is blessing in the chorus of their 1982 hit, Africa. It was the kind of rain that you could smell coming. Rain that turned the sky colors that you began to think, "you know what, maybe Harold Camping was on to something when he said that the world is ending." That kind of rain The first full day, the rainstorms deterred Ebby from the embarking on the long walk to her churches nightly bible study. I was relieved. Though I was growing accustom to her religious activities, I had doubt in my ability to fake a polite disposition to an entire congregation during an hour-long bible study. So, when we were met with rain the next night, I was again thrilled at the sound of the drops hitting the tin roof. The echoes of those drops were a false sense of security. Skipping one day was one thing, in Ebby’s eyes. But missing two? Well that was out of the question.
Thus began our hour-long trek that acted as an introduction to this article. I was livid, absolutely livid. My black sweatshirt was drenched, my glasses were becoming opaque as the heat from my skin clashed with the cold air, one of the four shirts I brought for this week of adventures was clinging to my moist skin and one of my two skirts was becoming translucent as I dragged my mud-caked Nike sneakers up the mountain. I muttered under my breath, “I’m not even allowed to go outside at this time in Nairobi,” and continued to feel sorry for myself the rest of the trip. Upon reaching the church, which was beautifully situated among the trees, now that I look back, I passive-aggressively smiled and greeted the others and inelegantly sat on the couch. The supercilious Pastor who greeted me as Lola the Quaker, after misunderstanding when I explained that I was actually Laura, the Lutheran did not remedy my mood. Despite my contempt for the entire situation, I participated in the bible study as Lola the Quaker, regardless of my differing interpretations of what the Pastor was saying. I complimented the porridge and enthusiastically snapped photos of those who were in attendance. By the end, my smile was less forced and I think I even smiled when a little girl asked if she could touch my hair. However, I was determined to be in a bad mood, so I ignored the joy I was beginning to feel, merely to spite myself.
As we began the unavoidable hike back to the village, I let out a relatively loud huff, a huff that I had not intended to be audible. Ebby quickly turned and asked if I was okay and if I was happy. My inner dialogue was screaming, “well, I am soaking wet and my teeth will not stop chattering. I am hungry. I am exhausted. I do not like all of these strange noises I am hearing in the dark. I cannot see a damn thing and I am not sure if I have enough dry clothes to wear tomorrow. Pooooooooor me.” “Oh Ebby, I am wonderful. Thank you so much for taking me to meet your friends,” I replied. Her smile was radiant, metaphorically brightening the darkness the surrounded us in the dense woods around our waterlogged path.
My verbal response and Ebby’s reaction acted as a solvent and dissolved the ungrateful, churlish thoughts that had flashed across my mind moments before. She had shared her culture with me, and I had internally complained about it. If she allowed every rainstorm to prevent her from embarking on her journey up the mountain, she would have to live the majority of her life on hold. She explained to me that she had been telling her congregation about my upcoming arrival for week and how excited they all had been to share the word of God with me.
My heart and head were screaming, “YOU ARE A HORRIBLE PERSON FOR BEING SO SELFISH! You didn’t even finish the porridge in a sign of respect! You should be so ashamed!” I was so ashamed. Growing up in such a homogeneous town, I yearned for exceptional experiences; I wanted to do everything that no one else had done. Had I really become so sophomoric in what activities I was willing and unwilling to partake in that I had pouted when I had to take one single walk in the rain? By now I recognize that I am not going to melt. Hell, the Wicked Witch in the classic film (and novel) The Wizard of Oz technically does not even melt if you subscribe to Gregory Maguire's modern interpretation of the tale in his book, Wicked. I had failed to embrace everything Ebby and Kenya had already taught me. It cannot be about what you do not have and what you want, but instead, about what you do have and who you are with. I forgot to look at the beauty of it all. I had closed my mind before considering that I could enjoy this little mountain adventure. How many other people can say that they climbed a mountain during a beautiful but violent act of Mother Nature, adopted an alternate identity, explored religion while struggling with language and cultural barriers and did this in Kenya, at the age of 21.
Perhaps not all mzungu’s are meant to get wet, muddy, a little frightened and thrust out of their comfort zone. However, in the case of Lola the Quaker, the pious hike in the dark is just the beginning of her adventures.
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| RAINNNNN |
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