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.
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.
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