Simon's Nairobi Diary - Archive 23

1 May 2006 9:53pm

προς τινα απελευσομεθα; ρηματα ζωης αιωνιου εχεις.

29 April 2006 7:56pm

This prayer, by the 19th century great Dane philøsopher Søren Kierkegaard, helps me feel sane:O Lord Jesus Christ,

You did not come to the world to be served, but also surely not to be admired or in that sense to be worshiped. You were the way and the truth--and it was followers only You did demand. Arouse us therefore if we have dozed away into this delusion, save us from the error of wishing to admire You instead of being willing to follow You and to resemble You.

28 April 2006 7:23pm

You know you're the guest of honor when the host slaughters a goat for your arrival, or at least, this is what I am learning. Wiraw "we-raow", an Ethiopian classmate, had asked me to his house for dinner, and I (loving all cuisine that is Ethiopia) did a small summersault. The dinner was typical Ethiopia: injera and spicy sauces with meat. He had the stomach lining sliced up for one of the sauces, while the others sported the rest of the meat. He told me proudly, "I led the goat from the shepherd to the butcher. It is the only way to make sure the animal is healthy and the meat is good." Made sense to me.

His wife insisted, though it was nearing 8pm, that I have coffee. They brought out green coffee beans, fresh off the plant, and put them into a metal container for roasting. While Wiraw and I polished off the injera and goat (extra linings for me!), his wife roasted the beans to blackness over a jiko next to the table. Thick scrumptious coffee smoke came up from the pan, and soon I was sipping its results in a tiny round up, poured from a long stemmed traditional wooden server. He showed me an Amharic worship video. We spent the rest of the visit talking about our differences, laughing at them, and eating my embarrassing attempt at brownies (not blonde ones). All in all, I felt so welcomed by people who barely know me other than the fact that we share the same faith. I guess that is more than enough!

27 April 2006 4:52pm

It rains. Every day, most of the day. Water. Rain.

The ground gets soaked, cannot take anymore in. Shallow lakes appear everywhere.

Bug levels explode. Mowing the law, they're actually mowing the lawn. The brown grass has gone. Green grass for once. Cold temps for once. Long pants for once.

The ceiling swells and warps. Drips come through the cranks. It rains on.

26 April 2006 7:02pm

I was eating chapati for dinner with my classmate Nzujalia and he asked me what I have experienced here that would make people back in Michigan surprised. I told him one of the largest distinctions I can find is dowry.

Hypothefetanonomical situation: say, like Lo Pan in 'Big Trouble in Little China', I'm still searching for that awesome girl with green eyes (that part isn't hypothefetanonomical) and she turns out to be Kenyan. For the marriage to happen, I would need to sit down with her parents and negotiate a price for her. Some tribes are more expensive, some more relaxed, but the price is usually dependent upon the grooms wage (similar to our diamond ring price expectancy). Four years of salary is one average I have heard, and payment is often expected in the form of livestock. So say I agree on the price, pay the mandatory portion of the cash and cattle early, and say I finally get the friggin' sweet green-eyed Kenyan girl as my wife. Even then, I will spend the rest of my life paying off this debt to her parents. Even if I finally pay it off, the tradition is to hold a "he paid off the dowry" party" - at the expense of the groom. And, there it is, a new debt for the groom to pay off.

What is strange is the heated debate about this bridal price. Some proponents strongly feel the agreement creates an everlasting bond between in laws, while making the groom appreciate his bride. Many haters feel this law forces the groom into inescapable debt, allows fathers to capitalize off their daughters as a source of income, and declares a monetary amount for the worth of a human being. Whatever the case, its a widespread cultural practice that is very foreign to me.

25 April 2006 4:54pm

I saw the bicycle that was hooked up to a grinding wheel, the man on the pedals holding a blade to the wheel that was between the handlebars. Shhhhhh it went. Or the child in the seat in front of me, wrapped in swaddling clothes and space-eyed, a badly lopsided head. He seemed tired or damaged. Or the woman I sat next to in the back, dressed feet, robe, gloves, veil in pitch unadorned black. Muslim and quiet. I was reading The Dark Tower by Lewis while I snuck glances her way. The matatu stopped at a corner and the windows were swarmed with sellers. "10 BOB! 10 BOB!" they sweltered, shoving plastic bags of small pears into the windows. A man saw me go for my change and held out a bag to me. Suddenly the van hit the gas and he was running alongside, his hand with pears in the window. Quick with the coin, small and brass, I shoved it in his hand and watched him wheel away and back to the corner. Back to the ride, reggae pumping out the speakers, I cleaned a pear with some water out the window. I held one out to the black-clad buhrka lady, the covered head shook. And all of it was so different from what I have seen before. I wish I could remember more. Little things here and there spark out of the view, small drops of irregularity cascade around, and how much simply passes by? Dear Father, grant me grace to breathe it in and be made fuller.

22 April 2006 5:25pm

Between the time already been and that which is to come,

I sat upon a fabric seat thick-headed feeling dumb.

Beneath the seat there was a floor and under that the road,

and in our seats we traveled forth - Mombasa to unload.

Trimester two had finished then,

long papers and exams,

brains and fingers turned to mush from professors harsh demands.

But with it done we quickly sought a time to be supine,

a bus ride to a beach we found - to read a magazine.

It started small, a noise at first, the lack of cool breeze,

but soon it was quite evident the bus would have no ease.

"Excuse me sir, we paid the cost for air conditioning,

but out these vents, I'm sorry sir, I cannot feel a thing."

And as a result the man slid open a window near my head,

hidden before, three inches wide. I gained a sense of dread.

I saw the whole bleak picture then of what we had in store,

I saw the place we bought ourselves, eight hours to endure.

Rubber roses lined the dashboard edge, half melted from the heat,

the driver with his cigarette, exhaust fumes to compete.

Yet worst of all was blaring on the ceiling-hung TV:

The Life and Death of: Kenny Rogers - had on VCD.

And so I sat upon that seat, shirt glued to skin from sweat,

busing through countryside with staggering regret.

I suppose it turned out ok from what happened in the end,

for the week was made much sweeter since we knew where we had been.

For as we sat upon the sand, a view aquamarine,

a reminiscent Kenny Rogers was no where to be seen.