Week 17: Saying goodbye to Nanyuki

This is the worst part.

Weeks 15/16: The moment

In every love story there is a moment, that moment you can look back on and say: "That's it. That's the moment I fell in love."

I am now at that point where I am smitten, completely head-over-heals in love with this mysterious and beautiful and breathless and thirsty place: Kenya.

And I am looking back in my memories of the past few months and wondering, what was the moment? What was the moment I fell in love with Kenya?

Was it that day when I was in the car on the way to Nanyuki for the very first time, when a rainbow appeared over the yellow plains?

Was it the first time I sipped that hot milky chai, poured from a thermos and combined with a diabetes-inducing amount of sugar?

Was it when I planted a tree in the rich dark soil and the women from the village surrounded me with singing?

Was it the day we found a chameleon at an old woman's house, and she would have given it to me to take home, because of how fascinating I found it?

Was it that moment as we sat underneath the shade of a tree, eating bananas and laughing at our poor attempts to speak Kikuyu?

Was it that walk on the way back from Muthaiga with the young girls, singing as we crossed the river: "Way-maker, miracle-worker, promise-keeper, light in the darkness..."?

Was it the Saturday at the hotel, watching football and drinking sodas?

Was it the day at Ol Pejeta, standing up in the car to watch the regal elephants cross the road?

Was it the moment we met Susan for the first time, that woman who has the joy and strength of a hundred women, as she takes care of street children and orphans?

Was it the time a woman said I was the first white person who had ever visited her home?

Was it Sunday morning, waking up with time to spare, and hearing, faintly, the singing from the nearby church?

Was it the day lingering in the classroom with my new friend from the village?

Was it the moment the street youths started singing "Hakuna Mungu Kama Wewe"?

Was it the time we surprised Monicah, our Kenyan mother, on her birthday?

Was it the day Florence taught us how to make chapati, together belting out "All of Me" as we became covered in flour from rolling the dough?

Was it the day riding to Nairobi, seeing the fog rise over the tea fields on the hills?

Was it the day at Wasini Island, swimming with those big flippers and that ridiculous-looking snorkel, and discovering a whole new undersea world in the reef?

Was it Christmas dinner at the hostel, people from all over the world at the table sharing fresh fish, and a Tusker to fight off the heat?

Was it each morning, walking to the gate, the little dog dutifully following us, and jumping on us, under the shade of the guava tree?

Was it that Saturday visiting the disabled children's home, when little Austin grabbed my wrist?

Was it the morning on Mount Kenya, exhausted in every part of the body but watching as the sun rose, illuminating every corner of that majestic mountain?

Was it that day, walking along the market stalls filled with fresh mangoes, cabbages, tomatoes, onions, spinach, avocados, potatoes, and more in all colours, that day when a thought just entered my head: 'I don't want to leave here. I want this to be my life.'?

Soon, my time here will only be a memory. Can I bear that? I don't know. I feel like there is still so much more to learn about this diverse land. There are so many languages I still don't know. There are so many dishes I still can't cook. I miss my Nova Scotia home, of course. Nowhere feels like home like those rugged shores. But here I am. I don't want to leave. I have visited a few places on this vast planet, but have rarely felt like this. I am preparing myself to leave a place I love, and I don't know when I can return. I know this whole post just reeks of sentimentality. But guys, our stay on Earth is short. Let's appreciate every moment. Today in church, as I listened to the wise teaching of the guest speaker, a thought occurred to me, a truth that Jesus speaks throughout the Scriptures, I think, but that I never put into words, until now. The thought is this: On my deathbed, I don't think I will be wishing that I had loved less. God has been showing me lately that though love is usually the difficult way, it is always the best way. So, though it is painful to say goodbye to this country and its residents, many of whom I can now call friends, I know that the time here and this love was worth the pain.

Week 14: Peak experience

This week's blog post is a bit different as this past weekend was a bit different! A team from the office trekked Mount Kenya. I really feel like there are so many aspects of this weekend that I don't wish to forget. It was the most physically challenged I have been in recent memory, but I also experienced some of the most beautiful scenes I have ever seen. You know I really think I have seen the best of Kenya: from snorkelling at Kisite Marine Park to watching the sunrise at the top of Mount Kenya, this country continues to take my breath away.

Mount Kenya is the tallest mountain in the country, and second highest on the continent, following Mount Kilimanjaro. This mountain is sacred to the Kikuyu people. As an office, we had been planning on climbing it for some time.

Spending a weekend away from civilization was exactly what I needed at this time. I had become extremely obsessed with US politics, and every time I opened twitter or reddit I would be shocked and enraged by one piece of world news or another. I was overwhelmed with the injustice in the world and yet media availed me with a constant stream of injustice. It was toxic. Spending three days with no network and in one of the most naturally beautifully places in the world was the best reset I could have. I felt like God was saying "I made this world. And nobody can destroy it without my consent."

Even on the mountain, though, injustice was not hidden: the guide pointed to a valley and said "There used to be a glacier there, but... global warming." I knew these glaciers provide water for the people below.
But the mountain still remained. It was large and strong and I think of the Bible verse that says "if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move.'" Seeing the majesty and strength of Mount Kenya, this mountain where people have disappeared without a trace, this fortress of stone and ice, this verse comes to life. The mountain nearly conquered us, and we were not moving it: just walking on it. Imagine that just a little faith in our God can move that mountain! It shows his great power.

So, let me show you some photos and tell you the story of Mount Kenya!

We had so much energy on Day 1. The road to camp was paved, so it was just a long uphill walk. The team consisted of six folks from Baraka and one Czech gentleman, along with our guide, cook, and porters. We were so excited and we just enjoyed the whole time. We arrived at camp early and, crazy as we were, decided to take a little jog and an extra hike up to a meteorological station. The below photo is taken from that meteorological station. If I would do it again, I probably would have chosen not to hike more than absolutely necessary. But at the time, I was just a mountain rookie, naively giddy and excited, with no idea what was in store in the coming days.

The first night was basically "glamping." The porters set up our tents for us and prepared an enormous meal. Unlike other times I have been camping, I was not responsible for anything: not cooking, cleaning, setting up the campsite, or anything. All we had to do was hike. At night, we warmed ourselves around a campfire, drinking hot tea and telling stories. The campfire was necessary, as we were at a high altitude, and the climate was cool. This coldness actually made it hard for me to sleep, as if I was camping in the spring or fall in Nova Scotia. But I did not complain when I woke up for this sunrise.

 

Day 2 began with this incredible sunrise, and continued to give incredible views throughout the 14km of hiking. We meandered through valleys reminiscent of the moors I had traversed in England just a few months ago.

 

Then there is this amazing place, where we emerged out of the valley to see our first real glimpse of the mountain peaks. I will just let the photos of the viewpoint speak for themselves.

After constant uphill walking and little sleep, rest points typically looked like this along the way. It was such a relief to sit down for a minute, and take some water. Even if I was in shape (which I wasn't, let's be honest), this would be a tough climb because of the altitude. The oxygen in the air really is reduced the more you climb, and many people on the team felt various symptoms of altitude sickness. So in fact frequent stops and water breaks were absolutely vital.

 Here's a view walking through the valley.

We finally reached camp just as we felt snow and hail falling. In this case, we were staying in the lodge. I cannot imagine if we tented that night, as the cold was unbelievable. I was worried for my Kenyan colleague who had never experienced cold like that before. But he survived, as did we all. We drank lemon tea and ate a hearty meal and went to bed very early. I slept in a huge down jacket: that's how cold it was! I love this photo of the whole Baraka team at the camp.

Day 3 began at around 2:30am, when our guide, Mohammed, woke us up. We groggily took some tea and checked our equipment before exiting the relative warmth of the camp. It was 3am, and I was cold and sore and dirty. But when I saw the stars, I forgot about all that. It was the dead of night. I was in one of the most wild places I have ever been, and all was silent. The black silhouette of the mountain rose in front of me, surrounded by thousands of stars. "Wow," was all I could say, and I know it was not enough. Sometimes words just cannot express the beauty of the stars. 

The next three hours were a blur: my headlamp illuminated only the steps in front of me, the only sound was the trudge of many boots on rocks and snow. My breathing was heavy and methodical: first "Hal-le-lu-jah," but then quickly changing to "Oh-God-Oh-God." Every step was like a stretch to muscles I had forgotten existed. I felt only primal needs: to breathe, and to drink water. I wondered if we would make it to the top. I wondered if it was worth it.

But then, all of a sudden, we reached the top. We climbed to the summit and there, the sun was rising beyond the clouds. I started crying. The beauty overwhelmed me. I was crying in part, I think, because I had not thought I would make it. I was crying because we had, and it was totally worth it. Hakuna mungu kama wewe.

 Here's a photo of me and my enormous coat at the top of Mount Kenya.

 The way down was as much of a challenge as the way up, for someone with knees like mine! But as the way had been dark on the way up, I got to enjoy the scenery on the descent, slow as it was. Again, I really feel like this blog post cannot express the beauty of this place. The best words to describe how I felt about this place are "wonder" and "awe."

 And then, we had breakfast. It's not every day you can say you climbed to 4,985 metres before breakfast. On Sunday, this was the case for us. After breakfast, we walked all the way back to the first camp!

 Here is the whole Baraka crew, minus Donald, who is taking the photo. We look remarkably good for having just climbed a mountain and walked a few kilometres besides. I think we were just happy to be sitting down.

 Some members of the team still had energy enough to capture this sweet shot!

So friends, that is that. We climbed a mountain this weekend. I look at that mountain every day from Nanyuki, and now I can look it and say "I was there." I am still in a lot of awe from that. I am thanking God for creating that place, and for allowing us to see it.

Week 13: Hope

I think we all need a bit of hope these days.

It's been just over a week since a reality TV star became the US president, and already I am getting exhausted by all the injustice.
Last week the US barred Syrian refugees from entering their country, indefinitely.
A few nights ago an attacker (I don't know who) killed several people in a mosque in Quebec City.
The other night I watched 13th on Netflix. It is hard for me to explain this documentary. It was just the kind of film where you sit silent and unmoving for the entire duration of the final credits. The documentary was just wave after wave of being shocked by injustice that casually exists and is for the most part unchallenged.
Quote at the end of 13th:

“People say all the time, ‘well, I don’t understand how people could have tolerated slavery?’ ‘How could they have made peace with that?’ ‘How could people have gone to a lynching and participated in that?’ ‘That’s so crazy, if I was living at that time I would never have tolerated anything like that.’
And the truth is we are living in this time, and we are tolerating it.”

There is also a lot of injustice here in Kenya, by the way. There is corruption and blatant sexism and right now the doctors are on strike and that disproportionately affects the poorest people and people get put in jail for years and years for minor crimes and school fees are so prohibitive that some people can't even afford to send their children to secondary school and....

I am getting exhausted, because I cannot escape injustice. It sometimes seems like there is no choice but to tolerate it because to not tolerate it would require me to opt out of many of the systems of the world, systems that are pretty hard to escape. But I am at a point, personally, where I feel like I have no choice. Jesus said "By this everyone will know that you are disciples, if you have love for one another." So what does love for one another look like? What does bringing God's kingdom look like, here and now? And how can I have hope for God's Kingdom coming, when I see all these seemingly powerful unjust systems in the world?

Now, more than ever, we need hope. It is very easy to become discouraged. I wonder if the world will ever get better. But then...

Then I see a post on social media from a lady from my church at home. She is planning an event for the church ladies, and she wants to include making a quilt for the Syrian refugee family who will soon be arriving. The other ladies agree. I think of how some people in my church would have reacted to refugee sponsorship even just a few months ago. But now- people are gathering as a community to welcome strangers. What a beautiful picture of God's Kingdom.

Then I visit a primary school in rural Kenya. We are proposing a partnership with the school to support their feeding program. We talk about the importance of proper nutrition on learning in the school, and look around the grounds to see if there is a place where we can put a small farm. The head teacher agrees, and we form an enthusiastic partnership. Now, like in other schools in the area, the students can learn how to grow food, and they can benefit by eating that food at lunchtime daily. This will hopefully reduce drop-out rates and improve students' academic performance. 

Then I visit a young man, in class 8. This child is part of Chalice's child sponsorship program. "What do you like to do in your free time?" I ask. He answers, "Running." "What do you like to do with your friends?" I ask. He answers, "Running." I ask his favourite sport, and this, unsurprisingly, is running. Finally, I ask him what he wishes to do when he grows up. Of course, he wants to be a runner. I imagine turning on the TV someday to see him take gold in the Olympics.

Then Hannah, a lady that shares a name and not much else in common with me, welcomes me into her home. Her child is sponsored, and she is the secretary of the microfinance group. She has used the money from the microfinance group to start a small shop, and she is making money for her family from this shop. On her little land, she has a kitchen garden. After we visit, she sends us with a bag full of spinach. It feeds us for three days.

Then I attend church, the church I can now call my church home in Nanyuki after four Sundays. Like always, the children sing a couple of songs during the service. One of these songs is familiar to me: "All other Gods/They are the works of men/But you are the most high God/There is none like you." I think of how I heard children at Malagash singing that very same song this summer. I think of how some of those children singing are the daughters and sons of teenage mothers. I think of how the church has welcomed these unconventional families with open arms. I am thankful for such a church.

Jesus gives the ultimate hope, though. Jesus both died and rose from the dead, which tells me two things about him: One, he understands suffering and injustice. And two, he is more powerful than the most powerful thing we can think of. I am thankful that Jesus is allowing me to be a part, even in such a small way, of toppling injustice. 

It is actually impossible to be discouraged when you get to be around this much cuteness

Just another sunset

So much love for these precious ones (Visit to the disabled children's home).