Rafiki! That is Too High!

(Rafiki means "friend")

Day 4 –

“So far, we’ve been thrown into situations before we know what we are actually doing. It’s great! I have found that is one of the only ways I will learn. I thrive on those experiences because I HAVE to trust God; and He has to show up then or I am screwed!”

    My first ever bartering experience was in Mexico the summer before my freshman year in high school. We were on our way home and we stopped at the border to do some souvenir shopping. In my ignorance, I didn’t know I was supposed to barter for the necklace I was buying until my frustrated friend knocked me upside the head. That day was brought to my memory clearly as Brian announced at breakfast that we would be do a scavenger hunt in Nairobi’s streets in smaller groups. We collected our shillings, a list of what we have to do and what we can do, and the bus driver dropped us off in certain spots around the city. My group of 5 started at the city market where we were to buy anything 80 shillings (80 ksh = 1 usd) – the challenge: we had to barter for the biggest and best thing possible. All of the girls on the team were to buy a kikoy or a kanga as well. Of course, Brian didn’t tell us what those were and we had to discover that by ourselves (later on, we learned that they are big pieces of cloth that the women use to wrap around their waists when doing housework). Sounded easy enough to me; I can do that. No problem.  
     We bought flowers, walked through the butchery (smelled…interesting), and browsed the stands and cubbies full of beautiful textiles, jewelry, paintings, leatherwork, key chains, and much more.  I was shocked when the venders kept coaxing me over and saying, “Sista, come look and see what you like. I give you a good price; I’ll give you the student price!” At first, I was obliging, but I quickly learned that once you are in…they will keep you there until something is decided. It was a culture shock moment for me and I felt trapped. Not because they wanted to trap me (well, maybe in a way), but because I didn’t know what to do. My group spent a little time looking at things some venders had, kept repeating “no, thank you”, and talked with each other how to deal with situations like this. Then, a man came up to us and talked us into walking to a small, local Masai market. We followed him, and were bombarded by venders who seemed forceful – we told them that we might be back, but we had to go (trying to get out of spending all of our shillings there). They let us go, but we noticed that the man who led us there followed us to make sure we would be back. Don’t worry; my teammate had this conversation with him:

Garrett: Why are you following us?
Vender: You come back to our market now?
Garrett: In America, we call that stalking…when you follow someone.
Vender: Ha ha (insert imagined response he gave to convince us to go back to the Masai market…I don’t remember).
Garrett: *stern voice* Sitaki leo (I do not want today).  
Vender: Okay. *walked away*

     Ah ha! Learned a new phrase and I learned that it is okay to be a little forceful. Okay, I can do that…I think. We were discovering new aspects of culture that “is not right, is not wrong, it is just different”.
     Deciding to take a break from bartering, we found a little cyber cafe so we could email/blog family and friends. They hadn’t heard from us since before we left New York and I was thankful Brian gave us shillings and time to fulfill that task. After a half hour, we went back to the market so that we could use our 80 ksh and get kangas/kikoys for us girls. Lesson Missy learned: she is too nice and that caused her to over pay. It is not that you have to be mean when bartering, but you cannot be wishy-washy at all or you will pay more than is needed. Bartering is all about the interaction and not so much about the buying/selling – relationship is put at a higher value than Americans are used to. I now had more experience with bartering and was determined to be better next time as I eased into my new culture. It was funny how different the venders reacted when they heard we were here as missionaries for 7 weeks and we knew some Kiswahili – they were less likely to rip us off a large amount…though we had to be on our guard still (they think we are loaded because of our skin color).
     At the end of the “scavenger hunt” in Nairobi, my group and I bought what we needed (I got a bright green kanga and a wood-bead bracelet), contacted people back home, ate samosas (delicious meat-filled pastries), drank passion fruit juice (I miss it, yum!), visited a post office, bought a map of Kenya, and almost got run over by several cars. Nairobi has become very westernized. Women adorn pants/jeans, there isn’t as much traditional culture, business men roam the streets, and it reminded me a little of busy New York City (I even spotted a music store!). We came across many round-a-bouts (traffic circles) in the streets. It was a fun day.
    We reunited with our team and headed back to Watakatifu Senta in heavy traffic talking boisterously about our experiences. After dinner, we got to hear more stories of the day. A few of my teammates that I didn’t know very well told hurmorus stories of their successful bartering experiences (this included Tyler getting to the point where he actually took off this glasses, shook them at the vender, and said “Rafiki, rafiki. That is too high!!!”). We also got to hear from our Kenyan teammates on their experiences being with us wazungu (white people) in the city. They would get lots of questions and also ignored because the focus was on us. It was good to see their perspective.
     That night we worshiped (I was seriously craving worship), and met with our small groups; the last time before we left for our assignments. With a team of 45+, I was glad to have a small group of 6-7 people I could talk to and share my heart (I am most definitely a small group/one-on-one kind of girl).
Oh, assignments were on my mind. After the end of our first week of orientation in Ngong town, we were going to be paired up and sent to assist ministries all over the country of Kenya. None of us knew our partners or the place we would be sent to until a day before we parted ways for those 3 weeks. Brian and the leadership team were praying and considering the whole week. I wrote a prayer in my journal that night expressing my concerns for my up-coming assignment I had no information about. I was going to have to trust God that He would place me with a good partner and in a ministry that would benefit me. Most of us knew what we didn’t want…an assignment where we had to preach a lot. Ha. Ha. Irony is in the air.
     The night ended with the presence of termites in the dorms. I fell asleep to the screams and exclamations of my female teammates after I showed my roommate some guitar chords – Silvia and I laughed a little.

Starfish

Day 3 (part 2) -

“How can people NOT care or want to help kids like this?! Brian told us the story about a man who was throwing dying starfish back into the ocean, one by one, from a beach covered by hundreds. Someone came up to the man and told him it was a pointless effort because there was too many; what he was doing wasn’t going to matter. The man threw another starfish in the water and said, ‘It mattered to that one.’”

    We left Mathare Valley almost silently. I looked down remorsefully at my egg and peanut butter sandwich (it wasn’t bad, I promise) that the Watakatifu kitchen packed for us. My teammates and I saw the desperation but we were journeying to see the hope that God brings. Pastor Karau and his wife, along with Brian and Debbie, started a home for children from the slums. The orphans are recued and literally brought into the Karau family to be cared for as their own children, educated, loved, and brought up as children of God – a stark contrast to their previous life in the slums. It is called Sanctuary of Hope (SoH) and it has grown into two houses full of “starfish” as Brian told us. The first house was our next stop where we were again welcomed by Pastor and Mama Karau followed by introductions and a tour of the different rooms. The children were at school, so we all sat, ate chapatti and soda, and listened to Pastor and Mama as they shared about their ministry. I could tell that God had a hand in this ministry as my ears heard the stories of some of the children. Sammy’s mother got him drunk as an infant so that he would be quiet, and Esther (the most recent child) was so malnourished that she could not walk or talk so that her 6 year old body appeared to be that of a 2 year old. Those are only two of the stories surrounding the houses of SoH that brought my eyes to water again and would continue to threaten me with an ugly cry. The second house was next on our schedule where we got to meet and play with the kids after they sang and recited for us. I held back more tears – I was having a very emotional day in case you haven’t noticed. 

    I caught a glimpse of Esther and Sammy was pointed out to us when he came to greet us. Sammy is now 9 and delivers an enthusiastically awesome rap. Esther immediately caught my eye. She was standing in front of the others while they sang songs just staring at the group of big, white people not participating in the song. Small Esther was walking, talking a bit, and smiling with sparkles in her eyes as Pastor Karau held her and told her that she is loved while the other kids quickly dispersed. I was able to hold her for a while after she got passed around the group. Her little hands cupped my face and her curious eyes studied every part of the green eyes, red rimmed from holding buckets of tears back. She was beautiful; this little starfish. I wanted all the love I could give to transfer from my heart to hers. That desire was strong, and joy filled me when she laughed. My mind traveled to the future and wondered what it had for this blessing – I know God will use her life in big ways. We walked around the yard as she pointed in the directions she wanted to go. After a while, we left and I let the little miracle run back to her papa as our team bid the house goodbye with promises to come back again.
     During the hour ride back to the Senta, most of us in the bus were falling asleep from the emotional and physical “exercise” of the day. Dinner was fine as I discussed some of my feelings of the day with a staff member who I connected with, and then Nams, the FOCUS (Kenya equivalent to InterVarsity) staff who was with us for most of our time there, joined me during chai. He looked at me as he casually asked me how I was doing. Again (it was getting on my nerves at this point), my lip started blubbering and it became very hard to talk without balling into ugly, uncontrollable sobs as I shared with him my feelings/thoughts. Nams gently shared what his experience was when he first went to the slums. It was interesting to me that many of the Kenyans in Nairobi have not set foot in a slum even when they live near some of the biggest in the world. “It is not a hopeless place,” he said regarding Mathare Valley. “The hope is in the children. God is working” Still blubbering, I replied as best I could, thanked him, and went to my room. This was probably the first of intensely emotional days while I was in Kenya.
    To close, I do have a slightly humorous story:
    I met my wonderful friend and teammate as I walked back to the dorms. She stopped me and asked, “Missy, I have a question. What is the definition of ‘intonation’?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, that ugly, blubbering, loud, messy bucket of tears overflowed, and my friend looked a little stunned before she pulled me into a loving hug. My burst also made me laugh. It’s a difficult scene to describe. This is the second time in my life that something like that has happened. The first time was at the end of Marley & Me when the dog dies (sorry to spoil the ending, but every dog movie ends like that) and my mom and I burst out with a loud, unison heave followed by laughter as my dad and brothers look on with confusion.
     Laughter also followed as my friend and I ended our hug so I could answer her initial question. “I didn’t think that was a question that would offend you!”  Sometimes you need to explode after a trying day – and sometimes being used as a dictionary can be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
The exhaustion was overwhelming as we all went to bed thinking, dwelling, and questioning God’s goodness in this world. We all experienced physical and spiritual poverty, but also hope that day.

Hard Times by Stephen Foster

Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh hard times come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh hard times come again no more.

There's a pale drooping maiden who toils her life away,
With a worn heart whose better days are o'er:
Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day,
Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore
Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave
Oh hard times come again no more.

Chorus:
Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard Times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh hard times come again no more.

The Starfish Story

http://www.voices4children.com/index.php?/starfishstory.html

Link to Sanctuary of Hope website:
http://www.pambatoto.com/sanctuary-of-hope.html

"We can Afford to Smile"

Day 3 (part 1) –

“Today we will be going to a slum. I am hesitant to say what I think it will be like because it probably isn’t something I can imagine. I pray that my heart will break for what breaks His.”
 

    Mathare Valley slum is one of many slums in Nairobi, Kenya and home to 90,000 people within 3 square miles. I have seen poverty during Mexico missions trips, but this is different.

We went to visit a church on the edge of the slum called Mathare Worship Centre started by Pastor Karau (a good friend of our wonderful directors). It is now a school, community centre of sorts, a store (Pamba Toto) to benefit Sanctuary of Hope homes for orphans, and a church all in one.

    I will probably quote from my journal more in this entry because the memory was fresher then.  

On our way into the valley we could see some houses on the outskirts which was nothing compared to being in the slum itself. We were welcomed (karibu) into the worship centre for a brief introduction and presentations from the grades in the school upstairs. The children recited poems and sang songs for us with smiles on their faces atop straight, proud necks.        

    Then we split into 4 groups, toured the facility, and were introduced to the guides (they all lived in the slum) who would take us around Mathare. My group headed into the heart of the valley with our guide as we passed a drunken man asking us for money. As Americans, we were expected (not necessarily by our brothers and sisters in Christ) to have money to pass out. At first, I didn’t really know what to think. We saw children running up to us or waving  enthusiastically and chanting in a sing-song melody “how are you, how are you?” The excitement and joy on their faces threw me for a loop as it contrasted the contempt of most of the adults. My emotions were confused because I expected utter dispare. Our guide explained that clean water costs 2 ksh (90 ksh ~ 1 usd) for one jug and the huts (the roofs made of about 4 metal sheets – can reasonably fit two people, but are home to about 5) cost the equivalent to $200 usd a month. That adds up for those whose income is much smaller than the average college student's salary.

    We first walked to the river. There is a river full of trash, sewage, and soot running through the heart of the valley past many huts. Many people take the "water" from the river and somehow make an alcoholic drink to sell for profit. The smell was overpowering – when I took a breath it was planned. Children were playing next to sewage and trash piles, the women were washing clothes with black water…it was like watching a movie. Was this real? The air was polluted with the smell of diesel without much fresh air, and when I found a rare pocket I took advantage of it for as long as it lasted. The river is where most of the sewage collects and where houses sit next to with their gardens and fruit/vegetable stands by the piles; the owners need money to live no matter how unsanitary the conditions are (that is an afterthought). We had to watch our step as to avoid the human feces on the ground below our feet, yet that was something the children stepped in every day. We had to avoid touching our faces with our hands to protect from possible typhoid especially after the children held our hands as we walked.

    Our guide continued to lead us deeper into the slum and we eventually came to her little apartment that is shared with her mother and brother. She told us her story: she was sponsored by Compassion International, but that only paid for her education (and only the sponsored kids get help - which is only a small fraction). She told us stories of how God has provided and we marveled at the miracle that stood before us in her apartment that was crowded by only 6 of us. I was filled with awe as her face reflected pride in where she comes from and in the hope of the people of Mathare especially the children. There is a ministry she works with as a singing coach to children of the slum. Her passion is in showing them how to nurture their gifts of singing thus providing self-confidence and most importantly spiritual guidance. Mathare is not a place of desperation anymore. There IS hope. “We cannot afford much, but we can certainly afford to smile.” I was overwhelmed sitting in our guide’s house and seeing her passion for God and everything in her life. She sang for us a song as I choked on tears which are now coming back as I recollect the moment of basking in her optimism and faith.

    We then headed back to the church. Our fearless leader/director stood and spoke to all of us about what we all saw and experienced so we could debrief together. The whole trip up to this point we had been reciting one of our mottoes, “it’s not right, it’s not wrong, it’s just different” because it helps gain perspective when one is in a new culture. I have a vivid picture of Brian standing before us and saying, “but this is NOT right.” The scenes we saw that day should disturb us. Children growing up in that environment did not choose to be there. They didn’t ask to be born there and yet they face the consequences of poverty and struggle that had been passed on to them. Yet the world goes on paying them no mind. How many times do we pay excessive amounts for coffee, get upset when we have to take cold showers, complain that there is nothing to eat in the fridge full of food....how many times in one week!!?? My tears continued to fall as we all raised our voices in prayer together for the slum, the church and its ministry. The murmur of voices of us all rose to a crescendo while I placed my hand and head on the wall of the church as my voice praised and pleaded with my God. I had never felt more helpless and overwhelmed, and yet I was determined to take the responsibility of what I saw that day. I can make changes in my life for those children and others living there.

    I learned many things within those hours spent in Mathare Valley. One important thing I should share is that throwing money to those people won’t help. It all comes back to that repeated phrase:
 

“Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he will eat for a lifetime.”
 

    One other important truth, God is in every crack and crevice in places of desperation fighting for the souls of those people.

…to be continued.

Link: 

http://www.pambatoto.com/