Day 5

Sunday was a day of choices at the Transformed International compound. The night before, Faith went to every member of the team and asked them if they would rather participate in the rich cultural heritage of Kitali's local church by attending the morning service, or stay home and get caught up on a few hours of sleep.
Naturally, I chose the latter.
After gaining a whole fifteen minutes of extra slumber time, I said farewell to the churchgoers and tackled my next two issues: laundry and the lack of laundry facilities in Kenya.
Two hours, three buckets of hosewater, a scoop of laundry soap later, and a near-sunburn later, I was hanging half my wardrobe on metal lines outside and praying foolishly for the continuation clear skies.
In Kenya's rainy season, the stretch of time between 4pm and 8pm are considered prime storming hours.

The rest of the day passed with little incident. We walked to town and dined at a local rooftop restaurant. I learned that in Kenyan restaurant lingo, "vegetarian" meant "potato-infested". We returned to the house just in time to greet the avid churchgoers, catch up on the experience, and head over to a place Faith had identified as Juma's House as a team.
Daniel Juma is the owner of a home several houses down from our compound. Physically disabled since childhood, Juma now cares for over twenty children, the great majority of whom were once orphans on Kitali's streets. As we sat in their small, well-kept house, children continuously filtered through doorways, moving to warmly shake the hands of the entire team in the Kenyan custom of polite greeting. Daniel Juma introduced each child, telling us how many years they had been at the house, and often elaborating towards the child's origin as a former outcast. He also told us the story of the deep trenches that stretched out from the house's exterior in calculated boundaries to rectangular islands of untouched soil.
Several months ago, a german missionary had offered to support Juma's efforts, giving them enough funds to construct a much-needed addition to the main house. This effort would expand the building enough to supply homes for several more orphans and benefit the home's cause greatly. The trenches outside marked where the efforts had begun and ended. After these foundations had been dug using the house's own funds, the missionary disappeared from contact, taking over $40,000 worth of support with him. As Juma told us this story of frustration and neglect, he remained unruffled, continuing on with a simple message: one cannot always wait for another's support. Through various local businesses owned by the home, they have been able to support themselves increasingly over the last year.

The rest of our time at the house was spent playing with the children outside. Save for our experiences with the Neema and Shimo girls, this was my first taste of the games and pastimes of Kenyan youth.

I've been refraining from posting too many photos of animals (I have, like, fifty million by now) but I cannot keep myself from gushing over the unfathomable adorableness of the baby cow they kept tied to a tree outside the house. He was eight days old.

In less wildlife animal news, the kids had made a toy of a captured bird. A string tied to its foot kept it from flying more than ten feet before being yanked from the air or fished from the ground. Some more tenderhearted team members turned from the sight more traumatized than the bird itself.

The visit was cut short by the sudden rumble of thunder far on the horizon. As we journeyed home, the clouds continued to blacken, sending foreboding winds past us as they crawled along overhead. In a burst of paranoia and concern for the really-really-unbelievably-nice-Nikon camera my sister had lent me, I bolted forward, reaching the gates the compound long before the other team. After I had placed the camera indoors, I skipped proudly outside to watch the storm roll in, hot on my heels.
I was sorely mistaken.
Eric, one of the Transformed International staff and Kenyan local himself joined me a half-hour later. He had apparently told me to relax while I was stumbling violently over the dirt roads and casting my panicked, gaping face skywards. And so my second lesson of the day was learned: Kenyans will always have a better understanding of local weather than Mizungas.

Day 4

In lieu of writing yet another detailed blog post, I'm going to have to summarize. I'm about two days behind and the internet situation here worsens by the day.

That being said, day four was one of the most memorable days of the trip so far.
We visited the Veronica House home for orphans and former street children, many of whom are HIV positive. The orphanage was renamed in honor of Veronica, on of the orphans, who passed two years ago of AIDs. Throughout the day, we played and talked with the children and staff, building relationships and experiencing the strength of Kenya's christian spirit firsthand. I was encouraged not only by the excellent state of the orphan's health and lifestyles, but also by the incredible amount of hope these children possessed.

From the first moments we reached the house compound, we were surrounded by children, clamoring for hugs and leading us on tours around the small facility. We stayed from morning until mid-afternoon, sharing a meal, many games, and a surprisingly competitive soccer match with the residents of the Veronica House.

 Reagan, the son of Ben and Virginia, the couple that run the Veronica House orphanage.

 Stella, 13, paints our nails with new polish given to her by members of the Providence Team.

 Elvis, 10, son of Ben and Virginia.

 Elizabeth and her infant sister Sarah.

 Reagan and Lori.

Martin, 8, brother of Veronica, the house's namesake.

Day 2-3

During Wednesday's ragged evening, we boarded taxis and reached the Transformed International compound. After a brief, fantastic dinner prepared by two members of the staff and an awkward gathering in the main houses' meeting room, we began a short cultural training session.

Things I learned about the way of things in Kenya:
-Raising your eyebrows in an unbelievably creepy way simply means "yes".
-Stroking/scratching someone's palm during a handshake indicates a desire for certain clandestine activities.
-If female, the showing of your knees instantly advertises you as a loose woman.
-If male, the showing of your knees will merit a great deal of awkward staring from the local population.
-"Mizunga" (Mee-Zoon-Gah) means "white person" in Swahili. The term is often passed between locals at the sight of our team and almost always followed by their hearty, suspicion-raising laughter.
-There are multiple crazy people in Kitale, but none of them are confirmed as dangerous.

Suffice it to say, by the end of this session, I did not want to venture outside the compound until the end of our time in Africa.

The following day made up for every ounce of uncertainty I felt.
After waking at seven and attempting to beg my way through a breakfast we were charged with preparing for our individual selves, I managed to scrounge up one leathery fried egg, a piece of bread, and a heaping mug of Kenyan coffee capable of turning your circulation system into a super-highway of euphoric glee.
Our team met for a morning devotional session. Worship was led by Daniel, our Transformed International-employed host and mission leader, aided only by an acoustic guitar and a few sheets of lyrics only he had the happiness of viewing.
The rest of us either sang boldly or winged it.
Still, the experience was heart-altering.
In the tranquility of the morning room, I found a spiritual place often barred by the frustrations of typical life. I was convicted, restored, and uplifted with visions of my new goals. We read several passages of Luke 9, focusing on the importance of dying in Christ so that one might live as a cross-bearing believer, capable of deserting earthly desires and selfish wants for the cause of Christ's love.
During the talking part of the session, laughter and swahili began to filter into the living room from the world outside.
After fifteen minutes of the small distraction, Faith glanced outdoors and announced the arrival of the Neema and Shimo Girls.

The primary focus of the Providence women's mission in Africa is the Shimo and Neema Girls. The former of these is a group of teenage mothers, supported with work, education, and training by Transformed International. The latter group is made up of former child prostitutes, rescued by the foundation and placed in a house where they receive educational benefits identical to those of the Shimo girls.
We would be meeting them, playing some games, and fellowshipping with them as they undertook their newest well-paid work projects.

Throughout the entire stay with these young women, I could not help but be struck by their beauty, a feature evident in both feature and spirit. Within fifteen minutes of semi-awkward acquaintance, we were laughing together. Within twenty, they were speaking and joking with us in fully adequate English.
After a somewhat chaotic game of frisbee, followed by a competitive kickball match and a stretch of time in which we were introduced to their own cultural games, we broke for lunch, prepared by the house mothers and a few members of the Providence team.

After the surprisingly amazing meal of cabbage, potatoes, and rice, the work began. Half the girls left to sew purses, while the others stayed with us to make bead necklaces.
(I discovered later that these women were invited to participate in these work activities with the promise of what is nearly an entire week's wages in Kenyan currency for two hours of work.)
The products would be returned to the United States with us and sold to American consumers for extra funds for the project and employment.

At four-o'clock in the afternoon, we parted ways, busied ourselves for two hours, and then met as a team for a dinner painstakingly prepared without electricity.
I forgot to mention that- Electricity here is anything but a given.
The government will occasionally just shut off the entire country's power for the heck of it (though apparently this particular blackout occurred only in the Mizunga [white people] district.)
The evening lapsed into competitive card games, reading, and, finally, much-needed sleep, which was consistently interrupted by the muffled blast-beats of the local discotheque until the establishment's closing at 3am.

Day 1-2.

I realize I'm starting this blog on the 3rd day, but given I've been in transit for over thirty of the last fifty-something hours, I think I get a free pass out of internet obligations.

After a three hour drive to JFK Airport in New York City, we boarded an airplane to Mumbai, India. We then waited two hours, only to board a flight to Nairobi, Kenya, followed by a short stay in the city.
The unmitigated hell of airborne transit was softened only slightly by my access to a few hundred movies, none of which seemed engaging enough to keep me awake.
In the end, I survived on pretzel goldfish and World War Z, a novel documenting the oral history of the zombie war.

The city of Nairobi proved as potentially dangerous as it was awe-inspiring. Filled with gorgeous buildings from a smattering of eras, the large city featured a unique traffic system, unprecedented in confidence.
In short: Cars do not stop.
Not for one another.
Not for reckless bike messengers.
Not for two-ton buses.
Not for clueless American pedestrians who may happen to stray directly into their path.

The chaos of the traffic system was rivaled only by the steel-gutted bravado of our mercenary cab drivers. While charming and entirely personable, every driver who were happily acquainted with proved as willing to usher us into their vehicles as they were to risk our lives among the screeching tires and blaring horns of the immense city.

Our resident lodgings, The Parkside Hotel, featured glamorous drapings about each bed known as Malaria-preventative Mosquito Nets. All the same, there was much talk of the princess-worthy effect they added to each room.

We dined that night at the Nairobi Java House, which, contrary to popular belief, had little to do with actual java.
My entire table, including myself, ordered Mexican food.
It was pretty spectacular.
So much, in fact, that I didn't even think to snap a photo beforehand. The following image documents the surviving remnants of our dinnertime rampage.

After a pleasant night's sleep, interrupted only by a siren suspiciously similar to the hotel's fire alarm and the wailings of a phantom woman, we boarded a bus.
We were going to ride eight hours to the village of Kitali.
I was given the delightful opportunity of sitting next to our team leader, Faith, a veteran to both Kenya and Senegal. Her knowledge of Africa was rivaled by her lucklessness with seat partnering.
I proceeded to coo over sightings of baby sheep and pester her about the lack of pet dogs in the city for the next six hours.
She was saved from my incessant querying only by my swift, jetlag-induced, coma-like sleep and my desire to capture a music video moment by listening to folk music while staring at the countryside flying past.
The following are my three favorite sights:
-A four-year old boy, hot on the heels of an 800-pound cow
-An entire vanful of local travelers, all joyously drinking strawberry milk
-A group of Kenyan preschoolers, excited and overjoyed beyond comprehension, playing with a pile of tires.

I couldn't fathom the happiness I saw on so many faces as we passed them on the road. So many local people faced both work, road, and each other with smiles and peace the likes of which is unseen in American cities. I understand the impoverished status of this country, but when confronted by the attitudes of the people I have watched, I can't help but feel a sense admiration: amidst chaos, corruption, and need, they encounter joy in every day.