Young People

It has been wonderful to be in Coreen Hester's wonderful home in London, to see her (some) and Katie and Silas quite a lot. Katie was with two Spanish friends quite a lot, Raquel and Laia, and we enjoyed them too. Silas has three Stanford friends, Dave, Eric and Ben, who came to watch him row. They were fun to see too. Here's a photo of Katie and Popie with Raquel and Laia in the cafe of the National Gallery, and one of Silas in his blue jacket with me and his sister.

The Boat Race

The bad news is that Silas and his team lost The Boat Race yesterday. We are sad, though I must say Silas seemed to deal with the loss well. By now he has won and lost quite a few Big Races; maybe he is getting some perspective.

The event itself was fun: hundreds of thousands of young people jammed onto four miles of river bank, the Thames itself full of boats, giant screens showing the action from many locations. Apparently Silas was featured in the pre-race coverage as the rower with "the golden ticket" and the silky-smooth stroke. We watched from a historic boat house in company with other parents and friends. We saw the start, and watched the rest of the action on TV. Cambridge had a chance to win it at about the halfway point, but Oxford was too strong and ran away with the race.

That night we attended a Black Tie dinner for Old Blues, which is what they call former rowers. I have never felt so short. It had a nightmare quality: one hundred or more very tall men in tuxedos, jammed into a room in an ancient and elegant London club, talking at the top of their voices. The new Blues (Silas being one) were wearing their new blue jackets, which are quite ugly light blue blazers piped with light blue satin. If you own one of these, you are quite a feature at certain events. In England it is something to be a Blue. So Silas will ever be.

Good-bye to Kenya

Our Kenyan adventure is over. We are in London having a wonderful time with Katie and Silas (and our friend Coreen) but feeling a little mournful to have left our Kenyan friends behind. That's what sticks out: we have some dear, dear friends there, and we are missing them.

I suppose if you live with somebody for two and a half months, you will either get a lot closer to them, or you won't particularly want to see them for a long time to come. Our experience was definitely the former. Getting to know the Okonji and Wachira families better, including their kids and their close relatives and friends; experiencing Jan Okonji's wedding; talking through work projects with Haron Wachira; and on and on--the texture of life was rich and interesting. And these friends made us feel so loved and welcome! They took care of us in a hundred ways.

We feel very privileged to have such wonderful friends. We will miss them a lot.

The last day in Kenya--Wednesday--was naturally preoccupied with packing. We had our stuff scattered all over in two households, and organizing it was a significant job. We got everything into our three large suitcases, and then the gifts started coming. Most of them were relatively small and light, so no problem to pack, but at 11:00 p.m. Bob and Wanjeri Mburu arrived with a wood carving, carefully ensconced in a heavy wooden case, that measured about four feet high and one foot wide. You can probably imagine our conflicting emotions. One: you shouldn't have! That is such an amazing gift, we don't deserve such love! Two: how on earth are we going to carry this? However, we managed, though we had to give up the heavy wooden case and just wrap the delicate carving in cardboard.

The next morning, early, Michael and Risper Okonji drove us to the airport. We had overslept, due to my faulty skills in setting the alarm on my watch, and that meant we rushed into the terminal without much of a proper farewell. After we got everything checked in, we looked out the large plate glass windows and saw that Michael and Risper were still there, making sure we got off safely. So we stood by the windows and talked a bit before saying a final goodbye. I can still see their lovely, kindly faces.

Worries

I’m feeling afraid for Kenya. On the surface life is quite calm, but (as every Kenyan I’ve talked to would agree) underneath are dangerous currents. Perhaps most troubling is the discrepancy between how ordinary Kenyans feel about their country and the way their leaders respond. You can’t miss the fact that most people want change. They are frustrated. They see so many simple things that need doing—things like better roads in Nairobi, an orderly planning process to import food during the current drought, a reform of the highly corrupt police—and none of their politicians seem to see the same things. On the contrary, the Members of Parliament pay themselves some of the highest salaries any legislators get in the world, tax free, and there isn’t even a movement among some of them to change it. Huge corruption scandals get pawned off on investigative committees, and their reports—years in the making—never get publicly released. The political order is thoroughly corrupt, everybody knows it and is sick of it, and yet, there’s no channel to change things.

Right now we are waiting for the long rains. The last few years rain has been erratic, which directly affects everybody because nearly everybody has relatives who live off their crops. There’s already considerable hunger in Kenya, due to poor harvests, and if the rains don’t come there will be a lot of hunger. The rains are late. The sky continues with day after day of beautiful blue, it’s warm and dry and there’s no hint of moisture. What particularly worries me is that the government is so disorganized right now it’s very questionable whether it’s capable of organizing the importation and distribution of emergency food. It’s one thing when remote desert areas experience famine, as they often do, but if hunger bites closer to city dwellers, it’s conceivable that frustration could reach dangerous levels. I hope and pray that doesn’t happen, but it seems conceivable to me.

Kenya’s political history has never made very elevating reading—it’s mostly a story of greed and oppression—but somehow God has been kind to Kenya. People have been patient and long suffering, unwilling to take violent steps. That’s why last year’s post-election violence was so utterly shocking to people here—they had never experienced anything remotely like it, and didn’t know that Kenyans were capable of such horrors. Nobody wants to see that again, and most likely whatever happens to the political order this year, Kenyans will continue to complain but go on with their lives. I hope and pray so. But I would certainly be happy to see some signs of political progress—a new constitution (which is supposed to be in process), a new Electoral Commission (ditto), and maybe even the dismissal of some of the most obviously corrupt government officials.

On the lighter side, here’s a picture I snapped of a sign on a police station declaring rather boldly the commitment to avoid bribery. I got in trouble seconds after taking the photo, because it turns out to be illegal to take pictures of police stations. So I was ushered into the station by an officer toting an automatic weapon, and told I had done something really wrong and some reparations must be made. The message was clear: I was being asked for a bribe.

Winding Up My Time at Daystar University

Popie here, just wanting to report about my time at Daystar these last few months. While Tim has been interviewing and meeting with people for his various projects and doing his writing of articles for Christianity Today, most days I have reported to Daystar University for several hours. When we are staying with the Okonjis, it has been no problem getting there.—only a 15-25 minute walk, which actually was the walk I would take when we lived here in the same estate, 30 years ago, so lots of memories! However, the Wachiras live much farther away, so navigating the transportation scene on many days has been quite daunting. I figured my commute from their house was as if I were traveling from Santa Rosa to San Francisco, for it can take 1 ½ to 2 hours! Because of the traffic (the “Jams” as they call it) I found that walking could take about the same amount of time as going by matau (bus), so it can take some time getting there and getting back. Needless to say though, my new knees have been the best, for I have really really walked, and felt no pain, except with that weird episode in the Mt. Kenya that lasted only a few days.

In the early weeks of my being with Daystar, I was teaching various seminars/workshops (mostly through the peer educator group on campus) and meeting with students, so it was a combination that I really enjoyed. In the last six weeks or so, my work there has been mostly counseling appointments with students at an office in the counseling center. My main frustration has been the mixup/tardiness in appointment and peer educator meeting times. Day students have many things competing for their time, so often several student meetings are planned at the same time. And then there are their transportation issues! Despite this, I have had a number of significant connections. I have done some very intensive marriage counseling , as well as less intense appointments concerning issues that students anywhere face. Very serious financial stressors definitely figure into life here more than they do in my practice at home. For examples one student I have met with semi regularly, over the loss of her mother, just told me that she eats one meal a day due to her perception that she and her sister and brother who live together don’t have any extras (I recommended that she at least take a banana to eat, especially in the afternoon when the grief thing feels so overwhelming). But between school fees and being students with no financial support from family, things can be extremely tough! I have met a number of refugees who have found their way to Daystar who are living on an incredibly tight budget, but somehow they make it. On the outside though, the student body is extremely attractive, enthusiastic, and seem to have so much going for them. They represent the new Kenya! It really has been a privilege to be able to connect with many of them and to be a part of some their inner journeys!

I have spent quite a bit of time with staff members as well, and have particularly bonded with a couple of women in the counseling department.. They both represent a growing number of PhD candidates who are working at Daystar, doing night school, have young families---and deal with transportation-- so it is easy for them to get overwhelmed! One of the women in particular, I feel I have been able to help with our contacts in the Daystar area of Nairobi (in not only the counseling world of Nairobi) regarding placement of students in the community as volunteers and internships. For example, yesterday I visited a nursery school (which has 200 plus children) in Kibera (reputed to be the largest slum in Africa ) and it was easy to identify a number of ways Daystar students could volunteer or have internships in all sorts of areas, not only working with the children (both with disabilities and not), but also with the single mothers and grandmothers who work with the school.

It’s been a very good experience—not without its frustrations, but on the whole very worthwhile and eye-opening. If we come back to Kenya, I would love to do the same kind of thing again.

Transportation

The greatest hassle during our time in Nairobi has been getting from one place to another. We don’t have a car, but even if we did transportation would be a major obstacle most days. Reason: the traffic is horrible. The city roads have changed very little since we lived here 30 years ago, and they are simply not up to the number of cars on the road. So, one must routinely budget one and a half hours to get from one part of town to another, and much of the time it’s just as fast to walk.

So we do. Lots of walking. But since sidewalks are scarce, walking is not particularly pleasant. You dodge cars and mudholes while breathing pollution. We get most of our exercise hoofing it.

Or we take a matatu. That’s what Kenyans call the buses and vans, privately owned and operated, that are the backbone of the transportation system. {If you look closely at the photo you’ll see Popie getting on one of the nicer, bigger buses.) There are many matatus, maybe a quarter of the vehicles on the road, so you don’t have to wait long, usually. Generally they are jammed full, and the seats are set so close that I can’t get my knees to fit. The drivers are, shall we say, aggressive, and the conductors who take your fare are a marvel of gymnastics swinging in and out of the open door, jumping on when the vehicle is already moving into traffic, and singing out their destination and cost in a singsong that sounds very much like a fired-up Pentecostal preacher. Matatus are cheap. We pay about a quarter for most routes.

Matatus work, except when they don’t. One day two weeks ago the local Mafia known as the Mungiki called for a one-day halt to matatus, and everybody got stuck. (It’s an interesting story: a UN representative had that week issued a report accusing the police of killing people without a trial, the government blew it off, and the Mungiki, who perpetrate horrible, grisly crimes, protested in favor of human rights. The Mungiki are the ones the police tend to murder, so they had developed liberal sympathies.)

The third option is begging a ride from friends. Our hosts the Okonjis and the Wachiras have been extraordinarily generous—and in this traffic, it’s no casual thing to offer a ride. We rely on their help, particularly when we have to travel after dark (which falls at 7:00 p.m.) because it’s not very safe to be walking around then. Most of the time, we try very hard to be safely at home when the sun sets.

In Santa Rosa, as most of you know, we hardly drive and rarely hit traffic. We’ve made up that deficit here.

Transportation

The greatest hassle during our time in Nairobi has been getting from one place to another. We don’t have a car, but even if we did transportation would be a major obstacle most days. Reason: the traffic is horrible. The city roads have changed very little since we lived here 30 years ago, and they are simply not up to the number of cars on the road. So, one must routinely budget one and a half hours to get from one part of town to another, and much of the time it’s just as fast to walk.

So we do. Lots of walking. But since sidewalks are scarce, walking is not particularly pleasant. You dodge cars and mudholes while breathing pollution. We get most of our exercise hoofing it.

Or we take a matatu. That’s what Kenyans call the buses and vans, privately owned and operated, that are the backbone of the transportation system. {If you look closely at the photo you’ll see Popie getting on one of the nicer, bigger buses.) There are many matatus, maybe a quarter of the vehicles on the road, so you don’t have to wait long, usually. Generally they are jammed full, and the seats are set so close that I can’t get my knees to fit. The drivers are, shall we say, aggressive, and the conductors who take your fare are a marvel of gymnastics swinging in and out of the open door, jumping on when the vehicle is already moving into traffic, and singing out their destination and cost in a singsong that sounds very much like a fired-up Pentecostal preacher. Matatus are cheap. We pay about a quarter for most routes.

Matatus work, except when they don’t. One day two weeks ago the local Mafia known as the Mungiki called for a one-day halt to matatus, and everybody got stuck. (It’s an interesting story: a UN representative had that week issued a report accusing the police of killing people without a trial, the government blew it off, and the Mungiki, who perpetrate horrible, grisly crimes, protested in favor of human rights. The Mungiki are the ones the police tend to murder, so they had developed liberal sympathies.)

The third option is begging a ride from friends. Our hosts the Okonjis and the Wachiras have been extraordinarily generous—and in this traffic, it’s no casual thing to offer a ride. We rely on their help, particularly when we have to travel after dark (which falls at 7:00 p.m.) because it’s not very safe to be walking around then. Most of the time, we try very hard to be safely at home when the sun sets.

In Santa Rosa, as most of you know, we hardly drive and rarely hit traffic. We’ve made up that deficit here.

The Wedding

It finally happened, the wedding that we have been waiting for and negotiating toward since we came. It turned out to be really fun. I think this picture captures some of the energy when the newly married couple danced into the reception and all around the pavilion, trailed by and supported by their maids and groomsmen and most of the women, Popie included, dancing and singing. It was a kick.

Kenyan weddings are all-day affairs. For us Americans it’s an adjustment, but now that I’ve attended several I’ve really come to like it that way. You set aside the whole day, there’s no hurry, and you have time to talk. Speeches, dancing, singing, eating, along with a pretty lengthy church service—you don’t look at your watch. This wedding, according to the printed invitation, was to begin at 10:00, but in the event the service began at 11:15 and one of our Kenyan friends remarked later that it seemed too early. Generally, he explained, a 10:00 wedding begins between 1:00 and 2:00, and goes until dusk. This one broke up a good hour before dusk, which seemed strange to him.

The day began a lot earlier, about 8:30 when Popie and all the Okonji women went to pick up the bride from her home. The gate was locked when they arrived. They sang and danced outside the gate for 20 minutes without a response. Finally someone came to say that there were several parts of the dowry that had not been paid—the tin of honey was missing, the bedsheets had proved to be single sheets instead of double. Also we needed a key to open the gate—a key being 1,000 shillings. Marx Okonji, the oldest brother of our friend Michael’s, responded that if they needed those things to be set right immediately it would take three or four hours. Word had it that Daphine, the bride, threatened to go out the back gate and take a taxi to the wedding. In the end some cash was exchanged and the bride was released. She was sung and danced to the car.

The wedding took place in a very nice garden. The ceremony was more or less unexceptional, except that it lasted two hours and the pastor’s sermon included a section telling husbands not to beat their wives and explaining why. Then we moved to a large lawn with tents set up on all sides to shield us from the weather (which was wonderful, the string of beautiful days we have enjoyed continuing unbroken) while we ate lunch and listened to speeches and music.

The processional dancing was the most fun, and we had a good time talking to friends who were present and also meeting or re-meeting relatives of the bride and groom. A special treat was the presence of Dean and Wendy Hirsch, who flew in from Geneva, Switzerland for the event. We had more or less talked them into it—they are Jan (the groom’s) godparents, and we convinced them it would be fun. Dean is President of World Vision Intl and needs to take time for fun. We had a great time with them—they are old and dear friends whom we first met in Kenya 30 years ago. Dean and I both have Okonji sons named after us, so there is quite a bond with the Okonji family.

It really was a great day. Popie and I have been very much a part of the wedding preparations, getting to know the bride and groom as adults (we are quite impressed with them), and walking alongside our friends Michael and Risper through the process we ourselves went through not too long ago. (My major contribution was to assure Michael that everything would work out in the end. One of Popie’s was to go on multiple trips with Risper and Florence, the bride’s mother, to the tailor who was to make all of their dresses.) We loved being so thoroughly part of their family, and they seemed to have genuinely loved having us so involved. This surely was a once in a lifetime experience.

Here’s Popie with Risper, me with Michael, Dean, and Michael’s brother Marx, and the four groomsmen—that’s my namesake Tim on the right, standing next to his brother Jan, the groom. These and many more people have become very, very dear to us.

Mombasa and onwards

We just got back from three luxurious days in Mombasa, staying at a tourist hotel where, for the first time in two months, we could be just the two of us. It was very relaxing. The beach has a coral reef about a third of a mile offshore, which means warm, salty water inshore with no waves to speak of. You float higher in the water that you’ve ever imagined, thanks to the salt, and the water is bathtub warm. One day at low tide we walked out quite a way with guides who showed us amazing creatures like sea slugs and sea worms as well as octopus eggs with little well-formed octopi visible inside. Another day we got an outrigger canoe to take us out snorkeling on the reef, which is a lot like swimming in the most wonderful aquarium you can imagine. We saw loads of monkeys and brilliant lizards, too, on the hotel grounds.

Most of the time, though, we sat under the palm trees on the hotel lawn, reading in our chaise lounges. There was a fabulous sea breeze that kept us at a perfect temperature. Occasionally we got up to walk down the beach or to jump in the ocean or the hotel pool. It was just what we needed to get ready for the last two weeks here in Nairobi before we start off on the European side of our adventure. Most of the time when people ask whether we are on vacation, we are not quite sure how to answer. But these last days really did feel like a vacation.

The only painful side to being there was the conversations with Kenyans trying to sell us things on the beach. They were polite and friendly and not too pushy, but the desperate poverty that grinds at their daily lives is not too far under the service. It’s hard to know how to live in a world with such extremes of wealth and poverty, which are particularly evident at a beach tourist hotel.

We did see some wonderful creativity in the ways people seek to make a living. We loved experiencing camels every day—such grave, awkward beasts—because some Somalis have brought them down to give tourists rides up and down the sand. And it was sheer pleasure to watch a remarkable gymnastic troupe of very young men, probably in their late teens, practicing their routines in the early morning on the beach.

This Saturday is Jan and Daphine’s wedding—the couple whose negotiations we chronicled earlier. We’re at Jan’s parents’ house where family members are beginning to gather, including David, their son who is studying medicine in the UK, now beginning his specialization in kidneys. (He’s a very likable young man whom we will see again in England.) Also Dean and Wendy Hirsch, our American friends who are Jan’s godparents. They are flying in from Geneva for three days just for the event, and we’ll have breakfast with them tomorrow. This wedding will bring together many people whom we love and enjoy, and we are really looking forward to it.

The Blue Boat

At long last Silas was officially named stroke to "The Blue Boat" for Cambridge. If you mention this to some Brits, the chances are good they will be impressed. Here's a photo of Silas posing with his counterpart from Oxford.

The shores of Lake Victoria

We just got back from a wonderful four days in the Kisumu area, on the shores of Lake Victoria. We went with Michael and Risper Okonji to the homes where they grew up—remote rural places strewn with huge, rounded granite boulders. (Here’s an example of how some boulders got utilized by a local cell phone company.) We stayed at the compound of Michael’s father and mother, about half an hour off the pavement along a dirt road that really could have used four wheel drive. All the sons in the family have, by Luo tradition, built houses of their own on the compound, so you really have a little village. It’s a quiet, peaceful place with lots of trees and farm animals, and a constant stream of neighbors and relatives coming by to say hello.

Just getting out of the plane in Kisumu we felt we had entered a different world—with soft tropical air, and a decidedly slower pace. We had wanted for many years to meet Michael’s parents, because we had heard so much about them. They didn’t disappoint. Michael’s father has a face like Nelson Mandela’s, and a manner that is the essence of gentle kindness. He likes to laugh, and he and Michael constantly tease each other. Michael’s father is eighty now and limps badly. He spent most of his working life as a lab tech for medical research for all kinds of tropical diseases. Though he had little schooling, he became sought after by researchers from all over the planet because of his skill in reading slides. We thoroughly enjoyed him. This picture is of Michael and his father (and me) in front of the church they recently built on land they donated next to their compound. Michael’s father can no longer walk very far, so he got permission to start a new church next door. He’s very involved—a person who was “saved” in 1950 through the East Africa Revival and never got over it.

Michael’s mother, too, was a delight. She doesn’t speak English or Swahili but we got a good dose of her personality. She is an extremely short, positive, energetic, non-stop worker with a smiling, elfin face. We loved seeing the delight that Michael and Risper so obviously feel in relating to both parents! Here’s Michael’s mother (on the left) with some other ladies, doing kitchen work and talking together.

And here is the preschool the church just started in a little tin building next to the sanctuary. They have 30 adorable kids coming from the neighborhood. They acted so pleased to demonstrate that they had learned their alphabet and numbers. We would like to see whether we can start some kind of partnership with this school. They have no tables, chairs, books or toys. But they are not complaining! A preschool like this can make a huge difference in the lives of children, giving them a boost toward education.

One day we drove over to Risper’s home, to meet her mom. Here she is with Popie and Risper. She had prepared an incredible feast, and invited quite a host of neighbors and relatives, including Risper’s “other mother.” Risper’s father died a few years ago and is greatly missed—a lovely man, by all accounts. He had two wives, as remains fairly common among the Luo. These large families can have fairly complicated dynamics, to say the least.

One unexpected highlight was a trip to Kogelo, the village where Barack Obama’s father grew up, and where Barack himself has spent considerable time visiting. Popie urged us to take the trip—I was skeptical, I admit. We didn’t know what we would find, or how we would be welcomed, since we had heard that tourists were besieging the place. But it really turned out to be fun. Obama’s grandmother Sara—Mama Sara, as she is known—came out to sit with us under the mango trees, and we had a long and animated chat. Well, I shouldn’t really say “we” because it was all in Luo, but we got the interpretation later on. Mama Sara is very animated and enjoyable company. She immediately placed Michael and Risper and remembered dancing with Risper’s grandfather, whom she greatly admired. Mama Sara is on the left.