Re:Creation

While Michael and Emilee eat the Christmas Cow on December 25, I’ll be with some family in Camp Verde, AZ. The kids were disappointed when they heard I was going home for Christmas, and I don’t blame them–in fact, I’m sad to miss the celebrations at Tumaini myself! A good number of the kids also thought I was purposefully abandoning them in favor of a ‘White Christmas’, and it was hard to convince them otherwise.

In actual fact, this is a sort of landmark Christmas for our family, since for the first time ever we have opted to forego all gift-giving and holiday money-spending, and instead are traveling to Arizona to fix up my aunt and uncle’s house, which has happened to be in a bit of a sad state. I’m certainly a bit self-conscious about how ’self-righteous’ this tactic can come across to people (I know I’ve thought that about those people who go work in soup kitchens on Christmas). Therefore, I am in no way passing judgment on those who do partake in The Rush this year. Still, there’s a genuine satisfaction in the idea as well, and indeed, my family can’t go anywhere without having a bit of fun, so we’re also planning a 2-day hike down and up the Grand Canyon. I haven’t been there for probably 15 years, so I’m excited to camp in the wintry desert location.

But all this was hard to explain to the kids, until I got a clue from Cucu Kariuki and decided to start telling people I was going to a ‘harambe’–a sort of Kenyan festival held by friends or relatives of people who are in need, in order to raise money and supplies for them. It’s not the same, of course, but it’s close enough, and it did the trick: as soon as I mentioned ‘harambe’, they understood the need to go home. Still, had it been any other year, I would have loved to stay at Tumaini, and I envy Michael’s and Emilee’s opportunity to share Christmas with the kids.

Well, after a long 42 hours of travel, I arrived back in San Francisco last night. What surprised me most was how unsurprising it was to be back in the States. After my previous 2-month stint in Kenya, the mass of development, the showers, the clean running water, etc…, all caught me rather off guard. It took almost a full week to shake the feeling that something was very wrong somewhere. This time, everything just seems like, well, what it is. I suppose this state of affairs is neither good nor bad, but I found it interesting.

Now, I’m killing the hour or two I have left before our midnight departure to the Grand Canyon. (On family road trips, we like to leave in the 2nd watch of the night, when traffic is at a minimum–and this practice holds a lot of nostalgia for me). I’ve taken my fill of fast internet and hot showers (though finding high-protein vegetarian food has proved more difficult than in Kenya), and will now leave the blogging to those who are actually remaining in Kenya, until I return in early January. Happy Christmas! (And perhaps more appropriate for this particular day: Happy Winter Solstice!)

Waking up on Sunday morning in time for church is often difficult. I confess (all too readily, perhaps) that the church services here aren’t what I particularly crave in the way of spiritual edification. The music that sets my teeth decidedly on edge (insanely overblown speakers, off-key saccharine synth jams pumping from the electronic keyboard, etc…) has already been mentioned, for example. Of course, they do some things here in Riamukurwe Parish that are a breath of fresh air. Women from the community, not even trained ‘ministers’, regularly preach. ‘Presentations’, or songs performed by any member of the congregation, take up a large portion of the service, and it’s nice to see such involvement appreciated (even if, to my classically-trained ears, those moments have a definite Purgatorial feel).

But, “Church” is another entry, deserving of a title different than “Monkey Nuts,” which you may be wondering about. The story I want to tell happened a few weeks ago, and it was in fact during one of those Sundays where Eunice, the Manager (heroine of so many of my blogs, it seems), was delivering the Word of God. As everyone who preaches seems to think, the Word of God by itself can be a bit boring, and so it’s good to spice the message up with illustrations and anecdotes.

As Michael, Emilee, and I were sitting three-quarters of the way to the back of the small church, Eunice began to tell a story about certain farmers in another part of Africa, ostensibly to support a point she was making. I was only half-listening, expecting this story to follow the general pattern, that is, to have no link at all to anything that has been said so far. I think I was right. But anyway, the story went something like this:

These farmers produce, as a cash crop, a certain variety of nuts which sell well in other regions. But, as it happens, a local species of monkey is driven wild with pleasure when eating these treats, and so they do all they can to steal them from the farmers. The farmers, being humans and therefore more ingenious than the monkeys, devised a way to trap the monkeys and save their crops: they would take some nuts and put them into a large clay pot with a very narrow mouth. The monkeys would smell the food, rush to the pots, and insert a little simian hand, grasping the nuts. Of course, their fistful of treasure then makes their paws too big to remove from the pot without first letting go of the prize. Unwilling to do this, the monkeys are forced to stay with one hand in the trap, until the farmers can come at leisure and kill them.

So far, so good. I thought it was a worthy story (in fact, one I’d heard about in 5th grade through science class, and liked). I could see where Eunice was going with it too–the nuts are analogous like those things we foolishly hold on to that are going to bring us to ruin. Therefore, we shouldn’t be like those monkeys (in our spiritual lives), clinging to pleasures that will only bring death.

But while I was thinking these things, Eunice made her conclusion in some unexpected words: “The Lord wants you to release your monkey nuts!”

I snickered, and looked around thinking everyone else must be too. But all the Kenyans were staring straight ahead, some simply nodding in agreement. Eunice went on, excited by her point. And then she said it again, with feeling: “The LORD wants you to release your monkey nuts!“

I realized at once I was in trouble. The Lord wants me to release my monkey nuts? Ha. Ha ha ha. Monkey nuts! Though I don’t laugh at every dirty double entendre I hear, the context, the complete lack of intention, was too much. The corners of my mouth began to quiver, and soon I found myself smiling uncontrollably. A Kenyan to my left looked at me, and I looked down, hiding my face. Then the laughing began: those stomach shakes that I refused to let move up to the throat. “If only I can avoid looking at Michael and Emilee,” I thought, “I’ll be OK.”

But Eunice was not on my side. Really worked up now, she got a bit more personal, and asked the congregation a question, leaning forward from the pulpit and talking in a suddenly low, serious voice: “What nuts are you holding on to?” she said with a penetrating gaze.

And that was it. A stifled guffaw inadvertently escaped my lips, and I ducked behind the pew in front of me, pretending to be reading a Bible. Then I heard movement from Emilee beside me, and saw that she too was trying to keep from breaking out in laughter. I couldn’t see Michael, and that was probably what saved us all from total humiliation. But, that feeling came that we all know, when it’s one of those times where it’s completely inappropriate to laugh, but two people think something is funny, and the mere fact that they know the other thinks it’s funny too makes it impossible to get a grip.

Remembering that I’d read about such situations, I tried a folk remedy and started pinching myself. The pain didn’t help. And so I stayed bowed forward for a full minute, until I thought the storm had passed, and the lashings of laughter subsided. Eunice had moved on, and we were in the clear. That is, until she came to her grand finale, and in full-throated Kenyan fashion made her pronouncement: “It is not a surprise that some of us will burn in Eternal Hellfire because we are holding on to monkey nuts!”

So true, Eunice, so true.

Needless to say, a lot of people were wondering what was going on with the Wazungu, though no comments were made. I tried to make it look like I had been crying (and I was…), moved by the sermon–but it wasn’t that kind of sermon. Anyway, it’s these little cultural or linguistic differences, and other random hilarities, that keep life here exciting. Like tonight, while playing Pictionary with the Form 4 Leavers (the secondary school graduates), when the phrase to draw was, appropriately, “Baby Jesus”. One team’s artist chose to signify the stick-figure infant’s holy status by drawing a manger, and streaks of light shining gloriously around Jesus’ body. The other team’s artist chose a more realistic tack, and decided instead to draw the little newborn, not just as Baby Jesus, but as “Extremely Well-Endowed Baby Jesus If You Know What I Mean”. Everyone in the room had a good laugh for about 10 minutes. Oh, and in case you were wondering: the streaks of shining glorious light turned out to be a better symbol–our team won.

“I used to look after some cows,” the conversation began. Christopher, about 17 years old, had just seated himself on our couch and was twirling our massage stick in absentminded circles as he began to talk in a rambling way about his childhood. We hadn’t asked any particular question; he seemed glad to sit and felt like talking, so he talked.

Christopher shared easily, with obvious confidence in himself, and with an even didactic air, knowing that what he was saying would be interesting and maybe shocking to us: pampered visitors from a posh and indolent country, who count even the most insignificant inconveniences as severe trials.

An hour later, after listening to the disconnected but always fascinating anecdotes, we were left, as you’d expect, with nothing to say. Apart from our periodic courteous mumblings of attention and empathy, Christopher had carried the conversation entirely by himself. Of course, we never heard another word about the cows.

Instead, we learned about the tribal wars between the Turkana and Samburu in Christopher’s earlier years, how he had seen it break out, and the lives he had seen it claim. He told us of finding high school students dead in the thorn bushes, after being given guns by the local clan leaders–gifts for being in their final year–and asked to kill the enemy. He told us that when they searched the bodies (a practice he took for granted), they often found graded papers, returned that day by the teacher, and perhaps on their way home to be shown to parents.

He told us of the helicopter he saw shot down (”killed”), how it crumpled “like paper” and burned, with nothing to salvage. The men who shot it down, he said, had killed so many people they no longer thought it would be a bad thing to do. Then he looked at each of us and explained sadly, “Some times you can do so many wrong things that after a while your conscience doesn’t know it’s wrong anymore.”

I agreed, realizing he knew a lot more about it than I did.

Interspersed with other random anecdotes (some, thankfully, much more lighthearted), we learned why Christopher had last cried almost 10 years ago, at the death of his grandfather. He had seen so many people die, that he said, “I can feel sadness in the heart, but it will never make it to my eyes.” He agreed, however, that it is good to be sad.

All the while, Christopher’s attitude and body language bespoke an unworried and unhurried mind. Every story of trial long-past was followed by one of thanksgiving. He prayed to go to secondary school, and, after his parents could no longer take care of him and he found himself admitted to Tumaini, he did. In another year he’ll graduate. He prayed fervently that one day he would be able to play a drum set, and the church recently purchased one. Christopher now plays it every Sunday, untutored, but with natural ability.

His childhood was, we would say, defined by poverty and death. But simply because he’s able to go to school, and can play a drum set that he doesn’t even own, Christopher thinks God must love him. Christopher knows and feels God’s love, in those simple gifts.

(Oh, how that shames me and my arrogant doubting! A churlish fool in such a cloud of blessing as I have been placed!)

But even words of thanksgiving don’t stop him from telling yet more stories. And so shame is pushed aside as I struggle to parse Christopher’s Kenyan English. We listen with surprise as he tells us that his father is accustomed to walking from Nyeri to Nairobi (a distance of about 150km) whenever business requires. Why pay the equivalent of a few dollars for a bus ride when you can walk for two days?

Apparently, it’s a family skill Christopher’s father wanted to pass on: when Christopher was in junior high, his dad woke him up one day and asked the boy to accompany him to Karatina and back (about 85km total). We asked Christopher why they went. He doesn’t know, but he has a guess: “He just wanted to see how well I could walk.” Not surprisingly, Christopher is now one of Tumaini’s best marathoners.

Tumaini is such a wonderful place, we often forget that each of the 175 children here have stories much more like Christopher’s than like our own. It is good to be reminded of that, when we have the capacity to hear it.