Remember that time I was blogging every day? Sometimes a couple times a day? And how I was going to keep it up for the entire duration of my stay in Africa?
That didn't end up working out.
I am sitting in Entebbe Airport in Uganda, getting ready to board our flight out of Africa. This is the first time we've been able to access the internet in weeks (and really our first time to have electricity since we left Tanzania two Fridays ago).
It has been amazing! The C&S7 got off the plane and jumped right into the whole experience with remarkable aplomb and inspiring enthusiasm. There are many many stories to share (and more than a few hilarious photos), but they will have to wait. For now, I would just like to thank all of the amazing people who made the past 3 weeks downright miraculous, especially Fr. Shirima at AJAM, Fr. Anselm and Brother Ephraim at Tengeru, Fr. "My Man Godfrey" Manana at Lima Farm, and most especially Fr. Andrew "Babu" Shirima, our dedicated travel companion who was with us every step of the way.
To the C&S7- Sidra, Erin, Marissa, Jordan, Allison, Nigeria, and Greg- I will never be able to convey how grateful I am to have spent this time with you. You're all aces, and I love you.
Somebody, please remind me to update this thing when I get home. I'm notoriously bad at blogging on US soil.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Friday, May 30, 2014
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Like a Kid on Christmas Eve
I know that I can't wait up until I know all of the C&S7 are in the air, but I am too excited to sleep! They'll be here in less than 22 hours! HURRAY!
But sleep I must, so I am going to curl up with my literary inamorato Lord Peter Wimsey. For you, dear readers, here is a picture of a baby cow.
But sleep I must, so I am going to curl up with my literary inamorato Lord Peter Wimsey. For you, dear readers, here is a picture of a baby cow.
Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect $200.
What an experience I had this morning! Last night, at around 6:30, I got a phone call from my good friend Fr. Bukenya, the rector at the Apostles of Jesus Theologicum.
Fr. B: Jo! What are you doing tomorrow?
Me: I don't have any specific plans, Father. I will go to Mass somewhere, I'm sure.
Fr. B: But tomorrow morning? At around 7:30? Are you free?
Me: Yes, definitely.
Fr. B: Excellent! Do you want to accompany me to jail?
Me: Excuse me?
Fr. B: I am saying Mass for the inmates at the male prison in Nairobi. Would you like to join me?
Me: Umm... is it safe?
Fr. B: Oh yes, it is very safe.
Me: Then sure! Why not?
Plans were made for Fr. Andrew to collect me at 7:15, then we would pick up Fr. Bukenya at the Seminary, and we would be at the prison for 8:00 Mass. We were joined by Br. Nicholas, a young AJ-in-formation, and Steve, a videographer who is making a short music film with the seminarians.
I have never been to a prison before (though I have always been very interested in prison ministry and have tremendous respect for those friends of mine who are prison chaplains), let alone a Kenyan prison. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. What I imagined was largely shaped by tv and movies, but even those auspicious resources did give me a hint of what to be ready for in East Africa.
Nairobi West Prison is largely a transitional facility, as far as I can gather. Most of the men incarcerated there have very short sentences or are being transferred to a different facility. I did not find out how many prisoners are currently there, but Fr. Andrew estimated it to be around 500 (that is just a guess- I'll try to find out the real figure). Fr. Bukenya has been coming to say Mass for those inmates who want it for about a year and a half now. The first time he went there, it was the first time they had had a priest to say Mass in over 4 months. This really affected Fr. Bukenya, and since he has Sunday mornings free, he volunteered to continue coming every week. One of the prison guards, Francis, moonlights as a catechist. He was dressed in his civies this morning when he greeted us. The AJs were all wearing their white cassocks with the signature yellow sash of their habit, so the guards recognized them instantly and admitted us to the prison. I assume that if I hadn't been in the company of priests, I would have had to sign something, or give them my information, or at the very least have my bag searched. I hope so, anyway.
On this particular day, though, we were admitted and escorted directly to the chapel without delay. We entered through a gate into a quiet sort of parking area, which led to another gate, which opened directly onto the prison yard. As I walked through the wrought iron door, I was suddenly standing among dozens of men in matching striped outfits (pajamas is a very apt description), all bustling about the yard. The atmosphere crackled with activity. I attracted a few stares as I made my way through the throng, all but glued to Fr. Bukenya's elbow. The humble cinder block chapel stood on the other side of a towering hedge through another locked gate. Men were already standing in two lines at the gate, waiting to pass through for their liturgy. We went in first, Fr. Bukenya, Fr. Andrew, Br. Nicholas, Steve, and I. The fathers went about their preparations for Mass, Steve took some sample video of the space, and Brother Nicholas sat on a bench at the back of chapel. I was glad to sit in the back, partly because I would be able to see everything better, partly because I would be less of a distraction during church (I am a white woman in an African men's prison, after all), but mostly because it was the only bench that was solidly put together with a back to it. The other benches consisted of a long narrow plank of wood between two small metal racks, like miniature sawhorses. One look at them, and I knew I lacked the coordination to navigate the various postures of the Catholic Mass and not be on the ground.
A few minutes later, about 100 men filed in quietly and politely took their seats on those treacherous benches. Br. Nicholas whispered that you could tell who the newcomers were because they were the ones struggling with the makeshift pews. A guard entered with them and remained at the back of the church, singing along lustily with all of the hymns. Truly, I have never been to a Mass where the entire congregation participated so enthusiastically. The African Mass has a lot more singing than the typical American Mass, and there were no song books or missalettes, but no one missed a word. Inmates with bright orange sweaters dotted the crowd. I was told that these are the leaders for this Catholic faith community.
After a heartwarming and uplifting Swahili liturgy, Fr. Bukenya asked whom among the congregation would be getting released this week. He invited them to come to the front of the church, and Fr. Andrew led the congregation in praying over them. It was a beautiful moment of a community coming together to invoke the Holy Spirit to bring strength to some of their own. I was struck, as I listened to the kiswahili prayers, how much this faith community meant to its members.
At the end of the service, Fr. Bukenya invited me to share a few words with the congregants. I greeted them with the traditional kiswahili blessing- "Tumsifu Yesu Kristu!"- which garnered a long and loud round of applause. I thanked them for the witness of their faith and the opportunity to pray with them, and asked them to pray for me as I continue my travels. I shook many hands as they filed back out into the prison yard, and received many sincere invitations to come back to their community anytime.
I am continually amazed by the people I encounter here.
*I took a lot of pictures today, but I am going to refrain from sharing them publicly, at least for the time being, out of respect for the inmates. I will include just these two for now.
Fr. B: Jo! What are you doing tomorrow?
Me: I don't have any specific plans, Father. I will go to Mass somewhere, I'm sure.
Fr. B: But tomorrow morning? At around 7:30? Are you free?
Me: Yes, definitely.
Fr. B: Excellent! Do you want to accompany me to jail?
Me: Excuse me?
Fr. B: I am saying Mass for the inmates at the male prison in Nairobi. Would you like to join me?
Me: Umm... is it safe?
Fr. B: Oh yes, it is very safe.
Me: Then sure! Why not?
Plans were made for Fr. Andrew to collect me at 7:15, then we would pick up Fr. Bukenya at the Seminary, and we would be at the prison for 8:00 Mass. We were joined by Br. Nicholas, a young AJ-in-formation, and Steve, a videographer who is making a short music film with the seminarians.
I have never been to a prison before (though I have always been very interested in prison ministry and have tremendous respect for those friends of mine who are prison chaplains), let alone a Kenyan prison. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. What I imagined was largely shaped by tv and movies, but even those auspicious resources did give me a hint of what to be ready for in East Africa.
Nairobi West Prison is largely a transitional facility, as far as I can gather. Most of the men incarcerated there have very short sentences or are being transferred to a different facility. I did not find out how many prisoners are currently there, but Fr. Andrew estimated it to be around 500 (that is just a guess- I'll try to find out the real figure). Fr. Bukenya has been coming to say Mass for those inmates who want it for about a year and a half now. The first time he went there, it was the first time they had had a priest to say Mass in over 4 months. This really affected Fr. Bukenya, and since he has Sunday mornings free, he volunteered to continue coming every week. One of the prison guards, Francis, moonlights as a catechist. He was dressed in his civies this morning when he greeted us. The AJs were all wearing their white cassocks with the signature yellow sash of their habit, so the guards recognized them instantly and admitted us to the prison. I assume that if I hadn't been in the company of priests, I would have had to sign something, or give them my information, or at the very least have my bag searched. I hope so, anyway.
On this particular day, though, we were admitted and escorted directly to the chapel without delay. We entered through a gate into a quiet sort of parking area, which led to another gate, which opened directly onto the prison yard. As I walked through the wrought iron door, I was suddenly standing among dozens of men in matching striped outfits (pajamas is a very apt description), all bustling about the yard. The atmosphere crackled with activity. I attracted a few stares as I made my way through the throng, all but glued to Fr. Bukenya's elbow. The humble cinder block chapel stood on the other side of a towering hedge through another locked gate. Men were already standing in two lines at the gate, waiting to pass through for their liturgy. We went in first, Fr. Bukenya, Fr. Andrew, Br. Nicholas, Steve, and I. The fathers went about their preparations for Mass, Steve took some sample video of the space, and Brother Nicholas sat on a bench at the back of chapel. I was glad to sit in the back, partly because I would be able to see everything better, partly because I would be less of a distraction during church (I am a white woman in an African men's prison, after all), but mostly because it was the only bench that was solidly put together with a back to it. The other benches consisted of a long narrow plank of wood between two small metal racks, like miniature sawhorses. One look at them, and I knew I lacked the coordination to navigate the various postures of the Catholic Mass and not be on the ground.
A few minutes later, about 100 men filed in quietly and politely took their seats on those treacherous benches. Br. Nicholas whispered that you could tell who the newcomers were because they were the ones struggling with the makeshift pews. A guard entered with them and remained at the back of the church, singing along lustily with all of the hymns. Truly, I have never been to a Mass where the entire congregation participated so enthusiastically. The African Mass has a lot more singing than the typical American Mass, and there were no song books or missalettes, but no one missed a word. Inmates with bright orange sweaters dotted the crowd. I was told that these are the leaders for this Catholic faith community.
After a heartwarming and uplifting Swahili liturgy, Fr. Bukenya asked whom among the congregation would be getting released this week. He invited them to come to the front of the church, and Fr. Andrew led the congregation in praying over them. It was a beautiful moment of a community coming together to invoke the Holy Spirit to bring strength to some of their own. I was struck, as I listened to the kiswahili prayers, how much this faith community meant to its members.
At the end of the service, Fr. Bukenya invited me to share a few words with the congregants. I greeted them with the traditional kiswahili blessing- "Tumsifu Yesu Kristu!"- which garnered a long and loud round of applause. I thanked them for the witness of their faith and the opportunity to pray with them, and asked them to pray for me as I continue my travels. I shook many hands as they filed back out into the prison yard, and received many sincere invitations to come back to their community anytime.
I am continually amazed by the people I encounter here.
*I took a lot of pictures today, but I am going to refrain from sharing them publicly, at least for the time being, out of respect for the inmates. I will include just these two for now.
 |
| Fr. Andrew, Br. Nicholas, Fr. Bukenya |
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Going... Going... Ngong
"I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong hills..."
This is the first line from Karen Blixen (Isak Dinesen)'s book Out of Africa. That farm is just a couple of miles from the Apostles of Jesus' headquarters, but the Ngong hills seem to follow me wherever I go in Kenya.
This picture was actually taken from the porch of Karen Blixen's home here in Karen (no relation). You can see the hills rising in the distance just above the tree line. "Ngong" is the Maasai word for "knuckles", and that is truly what the resemble. As I ride by, I will often hold up my fist, fingers facing away, and watch the green hills align with my hand. Though the are visible from Karen, they rise much closer to Kiserian, where the Apostles of Jesus AIDS Ministry is headquartered. I have marveled at them for many years now, but today I finally walked on their slopes.
One of my friends here, Fr. Felix, made the suggestion that we go for a hike, and agreed that first thing Saturday morning would be best. This being Africa, "first thing Saturday morning" was pretty close to 10, but that's part of life here. We drove to the base of the Hills and parked in the dirt lot. (This was after we spent an hour driving all over the base of the hills looking for the lot. We found it, and it was a beautiful drive!) I paid our admission to the park (800ksh), and we started walking up hill.
The first hour of our hike was actually on a hard dirt road, surrounded by, of all things, wind turbines. We saw them in all phases: actively capturing the wind for energy, standing stoically on the hillside, and laying in pieces on the ground, waiting to be assembled. This is a relatively new wind farm, though the first wind mills on the Ngong Hills were actually built in 1993 in partnership with the Belgian government. They are no longer in operation, but have been replaced with new and improved turbines.. There are plans to expand this wind farm from 5.1MW to 25.5MW. I don't actually know what that means, it's just what Google told me. But it's gotta be a good thing. Hurray for clean energy!
This being Kenya, there were no fences or restricted zones. We walked among the windmills as an ant might walk among trees. I have always found wind turbines strangely beautiful, a beauty augmented by the goats and cattle gently grazing at their feet and the gently sloping green hills.
All this time were walking up and up and ever up. We would point to the highest spot we could see and challenge each other just to make it that far. Upon reaching it, we would suddenly a slightly higher point just a little distance away, and continue upward. Finally, we reached the end of the dirt road, and came to an unmistakable cow path which led to the highest point we had seen yet. We gamely soldiered on, only to be stopped by park security. We were informed that if we wanted to trek onward, we were HIGHLY encouraged to hire a security escort to accompany us. For 500ksh, I figured better safe than sorry. We started up again (always up), with our new companion, a young man in army fatigues and a rifle. He informed us that there are leopards and cheetahs in the trees on the Ngong Hills, and while they usually don't attack people, it has been known to happen. Also, there are occasionally robbers. (Best 500ksh I ever spent, as far as I'm concerned.) The peak we were facing was getting more and more daunting as we got closer. At this point, our escort, ever the font of information, told us that this is only the first Ngong Hill and that there are, in fact, seven. This put many thoughts into my head, notably "What the hell were those hills we've been walking up for the past hour?" and "How many knuckles does a Maasai have, anyway?" But we pressed onward and upward, agreeing that we were committed to climbing at least one hill.
We conquered the summit of the first Ngong Hill, and were only very briefly tempted to attempt the second. According to our guide, the hills get progressively higher as you go. This boggled my mind, since you also cannot see the next hill until you have conquered the one before it. The truth was, I didn't bring anywhere near enough water to even think about hiking the second hill, let alone all seven. But the view was tremendous, the Great Rift Valley disappearing to the horizon on my right, the distant skyline of Nairobi to my left. We soaked it in, then made our way back down the cow path, back through the Wind Farm Forrest, and back to our waiting vehicle.
This is the first line from Karen Blixen (Isak Dinesen)'s book Out of Africa. That farm is just a couple of miles from the Apostles of Jesus' headquarters, but the Ngong hills seem to follow me wherever I go in Kenya.
One of my friends here, Fr. Felix, made the suggestion that we go for a hike, and agreed that first thing Saturday morning would be best. This being Africa, "first thing Saturday morning" was pretty close to 10, but that's part of life here. We drove to the base of the Hills and parked in the dirt lot. (This was after we spent an hour driving all over the base of the hills looking for the lot. We found it, and it was a beautiful drive!) I paid our admission to the park (800ksh), and we started walking up hill.
The first hour of our hike was actually on a hard dirt road, surrounded by, of all things, wind turbines. We saw them in all phases: actively capturing the wind for energy, standing stoically on the hillside, and laying in pieces on the ground, waiting to be assembled. This is a relatively new wind farm, though the first wind mills on the Ngong Hills were actually built in 1993 in partnership with the Belgian government. They are no longer in operation, but have been replaced with new and improved turbines.. There are plans to expand this wind farm from 5.1MW to 25.5MW. I don't actually know what that means, it's just what Google told me. But it's gotta be a good thing. Hurray for clean energy!
This being Kenya, there were no fences or restricted zones. We walked among the windmills as an ant might walk among trees. I have always found wind turbines strangely beautiful, a beauty augmented by the goats and cattle gently grazing at their feet and the gently sloping green hills.
All this time were walking up and up and ever up. We would point to the highest spot we could see and challenge each other just to make it that far. Upon reaching it, we would suddenly a slightly higher point just a little distance away, and continue upward. Finally, we reached the end of the dirt road, and came to an unmistakable cow path which led to the highest point we had seen yet. We gamely soldiered on, only to be stopped by park security. We were informed that if we wanted to trek onward, we were HIGHLY encouraged to hire a security escort to accompany us. For 500ksh, I figured better safe than sorry. We started up again (always up), with our new companion, a young man in army fatigues and a rifle. He informed us that there are leopards and cheetahs in the trees on the Ngong Hills, and while they usually don't attack people, it has been known to happen. Also, there are occasionally robbers. (Best 500ksh I ever spent, as far as I'm concerned.) The peak we were facing was getting more and more daunting as we got closer. At this point, our escort, ever the font of information, told us that this is only the first Ngong Hill and that there are, in fact, seven. This put many thoughts into my head, notably "What the hell were those hills we've been walking up for the past hour?" and "How many knuckles does a Maasai have, anyway?" But we pressed onward and upward, agreeing that we were committed to climbing at least one hill.
 | |
| This picture does not do the hill justice. That little bit right at the tippy top? Basically vertical. |
We conquered the summit of the first Ngong Hill, and were only very briefly tempted to attempt the second. According to our guide, the hills get progressively higher as you go. This boggled my mind, since you also cannot see the next hill until you have conquered the one before it. The truth was, I didn't bring anywhere near enough water to even think about hiking the second hill, let alone all seven. But the view was tremendous, the Great Rift Valley disappearing to the horizon on my right, the distant skyline of Nairobi to my left. We soaked it in, then made our way back down the cow path, back through the Wind Farm Forrest, and back to our waiting vehicle. Friday, May 23, 2014
How Do People Procrastinate Around Here?
Thursday, May 22, 2014
What Have We Always Said Is the Most Important Thing?
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Kabalagala!
My first guess was that they were some kind of potato pancake, but Fr. Freddy and Fr. Mawa quickly corrected me. Kabalagala is made from bananas and cassava flour. They are simply delicious! These were not served hot, but the outside was still reasonably crispy, and the flavor was surprisingly (though I probably should have called it) sweet and banana-y. I have learned to be cautious when an African is telling me that something is very sweet (a word used to describe both fish eyes and the dreaded Dorian). Call me jaded. But these really were delightful!
I popped back into the kitchen to give my compliments to the chef, a young man named Thomas. He told me that Fr. Mawa was the one who showed him how to make Kabalagala, since it comes from his home place in Uganda. This is kind of the neat thing about dining at Mazzoldi House. Even though it is in Kenya, the priests who live here are from all over East Africa, and they each bring their recipes from home to be incorporated into the menu. You really get a sense of the variety of the tastes and flavors of this part of the world.
Unfortunately, Thomas couldn't give me a more specific recipe than "You mash up sweet bananas and add some cassava flour and you cook them." Looks like I'll have to keep coming back for more!
Also, "Kabalagala" is one of the most fun words to say ever!
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