Appleseed Travel Journal

July 7, 2010 — Colors

Brooks

We’ve been hanging out in Kitale for almost three weeks now and are beginning to feel very much at home. Where once we questioned this or that, now we walk about freely going here and there doing whatever we need or want to. Roger even lets me out of his sight and allows me to wander around on my own now! Night-time, however, is a different story as even locals don’t feel safe from the orphaned street kid gangs, but during the day the most intimidating thing I can say is the constant staring and occasional “mzungu” (white person) with a pointed finger. I’ve actually gotten used to being in the minority and hardly notice at all any more. Most have given up completely on teaching me Swahili and even my friend Maggie noted when I said in a group of women that perhaps she would teach me (Swahili), that yes, she would, but then added quickly that it would probably take a very long time. (sigh!) This morning I went tripping down the stairs of our hotel quickly passing by the desk where Bilha sits collecting keys from residents who are going out and then passing them out again whenever each of us returns. She grabbed my hand and shook it, the Kenyan custom, and said, “Habari yako” and then exclaimed, “Madame, you look VERY smart today!” I replied, “I look smart?” “Yes, and young, too!” I told her then that my friends in Congo had given me the bright blue shirt I had on and how much I loved it. Last week our friends and church planters Angel and Steven from DR Congo arrived. It had been a long time since we’d seen them and since I had received the blue shirt from a friend in Uvira, DRC. The moment I saw Angel how quickly I remembered the beauty of the Congolese women I had met and seen. Not only physically, but the beauty of their clothing and how they move through their cities with such grace and poise and pride as they go about their daily lives. When they walk through the dusty, dirty, war-torn streets, they are like peacocks with each feather spread out fully, showing the full majesty of the purples and blues and greens, with heads held high for all to see, alert and excited to see what life may hold for them this day. Their dresses are amazing: the colors, the designs, demanding that a woman be a woman of grace and dignity and honor. Even if life has turned out less than they had hoped or sadness would overwhelm them, the Congolese woman washes herself with the brilliancy of pinks and reds and greens to lighten her load. Each day Angel has worn a dress more beautiful than the one she wore the day before. She says it is common; it’s the Congo way, and I know it’s true. I’m not sure if I actually do look “smart” in the blue shirt and I definitely question if I look young, but I have reflected on the Congolese “way” and have neatly wrapped up my black shirt (pictured) into a package to give away and dream of returning to DRC to learn more from my sisters there.

July 5, 2010 — Jane

Brooks

Boldly she exclaimed with a giggle, “I never thought I would be sitting this close talking to a Mzungu (white person)!” This was Jane’s response when I asked a group of eleven women to start our day together by sharing how they were feeling. I explained to them that as women we have so many emotions that are changing from day to day and sometimes even minute to minute. Since each of us had busy lives and come from different parts of Kitale town, some with the hardship of just trying to come up with the fare for transport, I thought maybe the best way to start our time together would be to express in a sentence or two how each of us was feeling right this minute. I suggested they start their sentence with, “I feel sad, or happy, or angry, or lonely, or worried,” or whatever it was they might be feeling. When it was her turn, Jane nervously went on to further explain that for her a Mzungu is so high up and learned and she saw herself as so low down that she could not even imagine to sit in the same room, to be talking, to be sharing about life with a White person. This is something she thought only happened to very wealthy Africans, not her, a poor Kenyan woman. I couldn’t really tell if she was excited or nervous or just plain scared, but one thing I did know: I had plenty of life experiences to share that would dispel her thinking that this particular white skinned woman was any better or any higher up than a poor black skinned woman who happened to be born in Kenya.

At the end of the day this same Jane gave a stirring talk as she spoke about the things she had learned. What touched me the most was she found that she and I weren’t very different at all. Perhaps my skin was white and maybe I was, mmmmm, maybe some 35 years older than she was, but woman to woman we were the same. Our hearts, our feelings, even some of our life experiences were the same. Our need for a Savior, the same. Someone to love us, to provide for us, to comfort us, to guide us, to heal us…all the same. She spoke confidently looking across the room into my eyes, “ Mama, do not be gone from Kenya long. You have a home here in Kitale and many daughters who love you.”

July 3, 2010 — For Sports Fans Only

Roger

Yes, I have much to share about this past week’s leadership conference… It was awesome!

But, at the moment, I will share just a little of the soccer (“football”) fervor that has surrounded us.

Imagine, it is rare for any African team to make it to the quarterfinals of the World Cup. Ghana did so by defeating the USA team (a bit of a disappointment, but it has been all too easy to recover and to join the excitement of an entire continent rooting for the one African team remaining).

Last night all of Africa is watching this quarterfinal game between Ghana and Uruguay. Back and forth they go though Ghana seems to be in control. Nevertheless, a tie sends the game into overtime. Then with only three seconds of overtime left, Ghana is given the chance to score (and win the game) with a penalty kick right in front of the goal. The cheering began throughout the hotel and the streets. “This is it! This is it!” This could be the first African team to ever reach the semifinals! The expectations and hopes were rising like a flood! Every country in the entire continent is praying for this shot to go in! But wait! The shot is illegally blocked by a Uruguay player! A hand is purposefully used to block the shot! The Uruguayan player is given a red card! He cannot play in the next game! BUT, the score cannot be counted! The tie stands sending the game into a shootout where Uruguay walks away with the victory. “It can’t be!” Africa (or at least the many sports fans) is mourning.

They tell me today that at least four Kenyans (located far from Ghana) have killed themselves in grief. Ah well, sports fanaticism can be taken too far in any country.

Nevertheless, sports fans anywhere in the world can appreciate the drama… just thought I would share it with you.

June 29, 2010 — Weekend Fun in Kenya

Brooks

We had an interesting time at a funeral on Saturday… between 1,000 and 2,000 in attendance, and the service was held in a field outside of the main mud-hut home dwelling. It went from dawn til dusk with lunch served for all: ugali (a white, corn mush of sorts that’s the Kenyan favorite and staple) with greens, of course. The deceased’s body was laid out for all to see and a hole had been dug beside it where he would be buried at the end of the day. Many people had a lot to say, one after the other, loudly talking into the microphone in their tribal language of Kikuyu, which sounded strangely absurd after listening to Swahili for the past couple of weeks. Fortunately, after driving an hour to get to the village where the funeral was held, we were only required to stay a few hours, long enough for the family to see us and make sure we were seen by everyone else there – pretty hard not to, as we were the only white faces in a sea of black ones! I was so grateful as I was squished tight in between two gals. The elderly lady right beside me had brought along her colorful, torn umbrella. She grinned a beautiful toothless smile at me and gibbered away in Swahili off and on while we sat together, but more importantly, we took turns holding the umbrella as the sun beat down on us. I could tell from her going on and on that she was terribly worried that my lily-white skin was going to burn, but for me, I wasn’t so worried about the burning as I was dying from the heat. I was so grateful for that tiny bit of circular shade. So, after a lovely lunch while gazing at the dead body lying in state under the tree, and Roger sidling up to me to note he had gotten a new photo (of a toilet) for my collection, we were scooted out for the mad dash to get home to watch the USA vs. Ghana game World Cup Game. That was Saturday....and then came Sunday! I thought we were going to a small house church gathering in one of the slum areas of Kitale. Mmmm, well, not so much. Eric, the church planter there, had decided to gather the network of house churches he had started there, or at least half of them, five, together. When we had almost gotten there, Roger asked exactly what was planned for the morning. Eric, then, let us know that he and his wife thought it would be a good idea for the women to go with me and the men to go with Roger. I just about had a meltdown! I had less than five minutes to get something together. It had taken me most of the morning just to get showered and dressed and now I actually had to say something and facilitate a bunch of women with no notice…for TWO hours! Well, needless to say, in my weakness, God is always strong, so I survived and God is good. It was a great morning…and a great weekend! Above is a photo of the group of women and also Eric and Maggie, the church planters.

June 26, 2010 — One by One Miracles Are Happening!

Brooks

Person after person, book after book we’ve read have been so discouraging in attempts to start a self-sustaining project in Africa. Even with initial funds to get something up and running, to see it actually run by Africans, sustained by Africans, without continual financial feeding from outside sources is almost unheard of. Yet, we were determined to not be ongoing parents of babies, but to truly see people set free to stand and live on their own, by their own initiative, their own strength, their own determination, their own resources. This was our dream for the Women’s Vocational Training Center. Even if against all odds, even if the Kenyan ways of doing business and running a school are entirely different than ours, we wanted to see it be their school, not ours, lasting not just for a few months, but for years to come.

So, with your help, initial funds were raised to rent space, purchase sewing machines, fabrics, scissors, yarn, threads, hire a teacher and the Women’s Vocational Training Center, Dorcas Hands, was opened in Kitale, Kenya six months ago. Elizabeth Mudenyo, the Director, has faced so many challenges along the way: friends who thought Mzungus (Whites) were going to be paying for jobs for the center, students who were there for the wrong reasons, materials stolen, “volunteers” seeking payment, students too hungry to be able to stay awake at their machines to learn, spiritual oppression of the students, management of the initial funding and paying rent and ongoing expenses of the school. The obstacles, you can see, have been great. It’s been challenging to support Elizabeth from half way around the world, not to mention teaching business skills that are adaptable to an African culture is almost an impossibility.

So, after six long months, emails back and forth across the continents, we were excited, even if somewhat anxious to visit Dorcas Hands firsthand. We wondered if we had been enough support initially and ongoing for it to work. If Elizabeth had been able to keep it going, it would be nothing more than a miracle. We prayed, “Please, God, let it be so!”

That very afternoon I met up with Elizabeth who excitedly told me, “I am anxious to take you to Dorcas.” So, off we went winding through the people-filled streets of Kitale. I had ZERO expectations and held my breath. Like so many times before, we entered the narrow dark entryway in the concrete building leading into the narrow hallway. Several shops were off the left and right. At the far end on the left, the door was open. As we stepped into the darkened room (I later learned the electricity had not been paid for some time), there were the sewing machines lined up in a row and where fabrics had hung before now hung beautifully crafted skirts and blouses and shirts and school uniforms. Before my eyes could even adjust, hands reached out pulling me close and big kisses on both cheeks with loud giggles amidst many “karibou, karibou”s of welcome. It was Christine. The Christine I’ve told you about before. The Christine who six months ago would not even look up if I spoke her name she was so ashamed. She used to wear the same clothes day after day, and didn’t even know what day or time it was she was so sickly and tired of living and breathing and trying to exist. Today, she proudly introduced me to the other students, Judith and Felisters. Then, she grabbed first a school shirt to show me, then a skirt, then a blouse…all made by her. She is a miracle…spiritually, emotionally, and physically. She has never asked for anything, but whatever is offered, she grabs a hold of and takes it for her own. Today she is a woman who knows who she is and where she is going.

Today, Dorcas Hands exist. It is sustaining itself, by God’s grace, as Elizabeth will gladly tell you. Is it easy, no. Does she need help, yes. Will we give it? Join with us to pray how and when and where. There are many Christines, many Judiths, many Felisters. One by one, we really are touching lives. They are being changed forever by our love. May I extend my asante sana (thank you) to you for them.