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. Andrew, Br. Nicholas, Fr. Bukenya

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. 

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. 

To Waste or Waste Not

As I prepare to welcome the C&S7 (even shorter now), I am feeling very conscious of the fact that I will be the "expert" on the scene.  I am pretty comfortable with the role.  I mean, I've spent months here over the years, and I've been very inquisitive during those visits, in anticipation of being able to gently guide newcomers through this chaotic world.  I can fill out customs forms in my sleep.  I don't even flinch when a matatu is driving directly at me on the wrong side of the road.  I know the names of all the foods.  I don't get excited when I see Maasai herders driving their goats through town.*

I can handle myself.

Which means it's time for an ego check.  I got one at dinner this evening.  I was raised in a house where you don't get down from the dinner table until your plate is empty.  "Make it zero!" is a common expression at the family table.  And I have carried that with me to this day (occasionally at my waistline's expense).  It grates on me to leave food on my plate.  It seems wasteful, and I don't want to be a wasteful person.  I make an effort not to take more than I want (or more than I should have), and I almost always lick my plate clean.

I did this tonight (because the food here is flipping delicious!), crossed my fork and knife on my plate, and leaned back in my chair.  "You know, Jo, in Africa, when you eat everything on your plate, it means that you didn't get enough to eat," said my friend Fr. Felix.  I apologized and explained that it is difficult for me to stop eating delicious things, so I just keep eating until they're gone.  "But Jo," he countered, "you are in Africa, and it is our custom to always leave something on your plate if you are satisfied."  Well, I certainly am not one to flout the culture of a place I am visiting, and I am an eager student.  But still... it's so wasteful!  "Jo, nothing here is wasted.  Don't you care if the pigs get anything to eat?  If you eat all of your food, what are the pigs going to eat?"  Fair point, Fr. Felix.

I went up and got just a little bit more food in order to not finish it.  I am so African.

*Just kidding- that is totally always exciting, 100% of the time.

On the Ground

I have arrived safely in Kenya!  Two 8 hour flights, and on BOTH I had a window seat and an empty seat next to me.  Heavenly.  Also, Delta has really stepped up their in-flight entertainment system. Touch screens and USB ports to charge things and great movie selections.  (And yes, even though there were countless quality films and television shows to watch for free, I paid $2 to watch Six by Sondheim and it was totally worth it (If I get hard up for blog posts, I might post a lengthy essay on things I loved and hated about the documentary.).)  (And Inside Llewyn Davis was awesome.) 

 The Come & See Seven (which I have just decided to call them) arrive in just 4 days, so I have hit the ground running even more than normal.  I have a lengthy To-Do List to complete before they arrive, but I will endeavor not to neglect the blog.  I will almost certainly have more important things to share than what movies I watch on the flight (but The Wolf of Wall Street was... well... I didn't like it. I know why it is so polarizing, and I can understand why people would like it, but I didn't.).

Also, I might still be a little sleep deprived.  Gotta make sure that makes it onto the To-Do List.

Into the Wild Blue Yonder...

I woke up this morning at 6:30 without an alarm.
I keep checking the same lists over and over and over again.
I have been loading my iPod with tons of NPR podcasts.
I have been listening to "Africa" by Toto on repeat for about 24 hours.

Time to go to Africa, hon! 

I can't believe it's been almost 2 years since my last trip (I also can't believe that the last thing I wrote about was a Kenyan Reality TV Competition.  Woof.), but I am super excited about this trip.  5 days after I land in Kenya, I will be joined by 7 young adults for a 3 week Come & See Mission trip.  This is the dream, why I started working for the AJs in the first place, and what I have been working towards for 2 and a half years.  It was heartbreaking when I had to cancel the trip last year, but I have been feeling lately that this is how it was all supposed to happen. 

Since 5 of the 7 Come & See participants are medical students at Marian University College of Osteopathic Medicine (including my awesome sister Allie!), this trip will have a medical focus.  When the group arrives, we will spend our first week in Kenya at the Apostles of Jesus AIDS Ministry (AJAM) in Kiserian, Rift Valley.  Then we will drive to Tanzania for a few days of safari adventures (Ngorongoro Crater!), before flying to Uganda to work at the Queen of the Apostles Medical Center at Lima Farm in Nakaseke. 

It is going to be a pretty intense three weeks!

I am going to do my best to keep this blog up to date.  I'm also hoping to have some guest bloggers, so you can hear from the people with whom I am traveling.  Of course, as ever, all of this is contingent on decent internet access. 

Be well, dear readers.  The next time you hear from me, I'll be on East African time!

The Dorian

In my travels, I pride myself on being an adventurous eater, “foodventurous” as I like to call it.  True, my will has been tested from time to time.  There are certain foods that I just don’t like: coconut, anise, olives, fermented millet porridge.  My feelings about chicken gizzards are well documented.  I was nearly undone when I foolishly let Dave order lunch for us in Westvleteren, Belgium and was forced, for the sake of pride, to eat what can only be described as chunky chicken Jell-O.  But nothing, my friends, not one thing could have prepared me for the unholy, gag-inducing terror of… 

The Dorian.

The Dorian is a fruit that, as far as my hosts or I know, grows exclusively on Zanzibar.  It has some similarities to Jackfruit, with its green spiky skin and large seeds, but though it is not anywhere near as large as the mighty Jackfruit, its skin is much spikier and its seeds are much larger.  Its rind is actually so spiky that it is impossible to hold the fruit by anything but the stem.  I feel that humanity should have gotten the hint that this was a fruit not intended for consumption.  The unblemished fruit gives off a vaguely sickening odor, yet another helpful hint for humanity to leave this fruit alone.  When you cut into it, the odor builds to a pungent scream of noxious fumes: DO NOT EAT THIS FRUIT!  The fruit’s flesh is amorphous white slimy pulp, clinging half-heartedly to seeds roughly the size of walnuts.  The overall effect reminded me of monkey’s brains, which are popular in Cantonese cuisine.

Was it intended to be a treat? A joke? A prank gone awry, played on me by the kindly sisters with whom I was staying?  I just don’t know, nor do I expect to.  I can say with all certainty that there was no malicious intent when they placed a plate of the reeking fruit in front of me.  I wish I could accurately describe the toxic smell.  The closest comparison I can come up with is a combination of sweat and gasoline.  I was cajoled into taking an infinitesimal taste by choruses of, “It’s sweet!  It smells bad, but the taste is sweet!”  They weren’t completely wrong- it tasted like sweat and gasoline with a hint of off-brand artificial sweetener.  Sr. Eunice told me it is good medicine for the stomach.  I can see the benefit if, say, someone took a goodly amount of poison and you didn’t have any activated charcoal around.  Personally, I don’t think I could hold a good dollop down. 

Eating cottage cheese was heaven compared to this heinous experience.

When I asked the sisters if they make all of their visitors try Dorian, then informed me that it is seasonal, so it isn’t available for visitors to try during most of the year.  When we parted ways, I assured them of my eventual return, promising to come in the Dorian’s off-season.

Epilogue

When I took the boat to Zanzibar on Monday, I thought it was cute and kind of funny that they handed out sick bags to all of the passengers for the 2 hour ride.  When I boarded the return shuttle, one quick sniff told me someone was taking a Dorian to the mainland.  I clutched my bag the entire way home and focused on breathing through my mouth.

Burying the Hatchet

Coconut and I have been at odds for as long as I can remember.  With the notable exception of coconut milk in Thai curry, I have loathed every food I have ever tried that has even the smallest traces of coconut.  “You can’t even taste it!” “It doesn’t even taste like coconut!”  Oh, how I detest those wheedling phrases, but I always relent.  I always give it a try.  Coconut shrimp, Caramel Delite/Samoa Girl Scout Cookies, Piña Coladas, Mounds candy, coconut rum… no, thank you.  Part of it is a texture thing- I can tell instantly if a cookie has coconut in it- and part of it is good old fashioned flavor.  I admit that I occasionally tell people that I am allergic in order to justify not eating proffered coconut treats. (Remember that episode of Wishbone when Sam had that awful reaction to the granola bar with coconut in it?  I was crazy jealous.)

So, naturally, when I was offered “coconut juice” on my first day in Zanzinbar, I politely but fervently declined.  “But Jo, it doesn’t even taste like coconut!”  *sigh*  So I relented to my sweetly insistent guides, and the driver pulled over to the side of the road.  He got out and came back a few minutes later with a large green coconut whose top had been whittled down and with a hole in the top.  He handed it to me and told me simply to drink.  When I looked inside, all I could see was clear liquid, and it didn’t smell anything like coconut, so I figured, what the hey?  I drank deeply from the awkwardly large seed, and it tasted magnificent!  Which is to say, NOTHING like coconut!  From my experience, I would say it tasted like very slightly sweetened water.  Had the coconut stayed on the tree for another 6 weeks or so, all of that water would have been absorbed making the hard coconut flesh that torments me so, but when it is still young enough, the “juice” is a delightfully refreshing treat. 

I feel that this is a big moment in my life, philosophically speaking.  If I can find a way, after all of these years, to enjoy raw coconut, then surely there must be a way to world peace!  But, you know, a way that doesn’t involve cutting down a growing thing in the flower of its youth to drink its life source.  That seems a little extreme in any other situation.

The Spice of Life

One of the things that I have always enjoyed about Africa is that they grow the kinds of things that America needs to have imported from faraway lands.  Bananas grow in the back yard.   Mango trees frequently dot the landscape.  Fresh, locally grown passion fruit and papayas are in fruit bowls on dining room tables.  I have eaten a lot of fruit, and I haven’t seen a single plu# sticker.

Zanzibar really kicked it up a notch. 

On my only full day on the island, my new friend Sr. Eunice and I started with a tour of a spice farm.  When you have been handling the red-capped McCormick spices almost exclusively your entire life, it is really mind-bending to see the spices in their raw, natural, living forms.  Our guide, Sisso, invited us to smell the alluringly sweet aroma of the ripening vanilla bean hanging from the vine.  He whittled a sliver of bark away from the cinnamon tree, bragging about the superior spicy quality of Zanzibar cinnamon, and handed it to me to chew. Better than all the Hot Tamales in the world!  Then, he used his knife to dig up a small bit of cinnamon tree root, and it amazingly smelled exactly like Vicks vapo-rub!  How could two such distinct flavors come from the same plant?  Cardamon, ginger, lemon grass, turmeric, cloves- each smelled more amazing than the last!  Sisso explained how the color of the pepper (white, green, or black), depended on when the peppercorn was harvested. We saw Henna, used for the elaborate painted skin decorations we saw on the arms of the Muslim women around town.  And the fruit!  We tried pickle fruit, shaped like a jalepeno, sour like a lime; star fruit, just shy of it’s true sweet ripeness, saw a young pineapple just starting to make it’s way in the world, and ate lichi by the dozens.  When lichi are ripe, they turn bright red, their spiky flesh making them about the size of a kiwi fruit.  Sisso would remove the rind so that I could eat the fruit, which looked and tasted for all the world like a peeled grape. 

A young man followed the tour at a distance, barefoot and wearing a trucker hat that read “Sex is not a crime.”  He hung back, weaving palm leaves together, and appearing magically at Sisso’s elbow whenever a tree needed to be climbed to retrieve out-of-reach fruit.  Towards the end of the tour, he twisted a rough looking rope around his feet, and scrambled straight up a towering palm tree to cut down a couple of coconuts.  There was something kind of aboriginal in the way that he climbed so easily, which made it all the more jarring when he answered his cell phone midway down the tree. Sisso led Sr. Eunice and I to a bench where we sat and sampled more local fruit- tangerines and custard apples (tasted exactly like apple Laffy Taffy- new favorite fruit!).   We capped off our taste adventure with samples of lemon grass and masala teas.  We dallied at the table of spices for sale for a while, but eventually had to tear ourselves away from the aromas and bid farewell to the spice farm.

Beauty

Zanzibar.  

To me, the word alone has always been synonymous with “exotic” and “mysterious” and “really really really far away.”  But to actually see it, to be there, to feel it under my feet and sense it with every fiber of my being… it seems less far, but by no means less exotic or mysterious.  Truly, Zanzibar exceeded my expectations in every possible way!

My first impression of Zanzibar from the boat, especially old Stonetown, the capital city, was that this is a place stuck in time.  From a distance, it is how I’ve always pictured Old San Juan or Havana (perhaps very inaccurately, since I’ve never seen either), with bright buildings lining the coast, blue water made bluer in contrast with the white sand beaches.  Within in minutes of disembarking from the Kilimanjaro II, my host, Sr. Claudia had greeted me like family and launched into a tour of Stonetown.  My first few hours took me to the House of Wonder, the former home of the Omani Sultan in Zanzibar, St. Joseph’s Cathedral, the oldest church in East Africa, and the Anglican Cathedral, which was built on the remains of the slave market after slave trade was illegalized.  We wound our way through labyrinthine streets as Sister told me about the culture and history of Zanzibar.  The population of Zanzibar is something like 98% Muslim, and you can see the Arab influence in almost everything, from architecture to cuisine to the people themselves (who, apparently are NOT called Zanzibarbarians;  Gonzo, you have led me astray).  All of it was beautiful to me.

One of the biggest surprises to me is that the entire island is made out of coral.  Yes, there is earth to grow things, and white sand beaches, but life on Zanzibar has been chiseled out of an ancient and massive hunk of coral.  Walking along a path at the compound where I was staying, Sr. Claudia warned me to watch my step, because what I had taken for rocks littering the path were actually hunks of coral poking up above the dirt. 

The ruins of palaces of sultans in ages past, the soaring palm trees dotting the landscape, the coral cliffs dropping down to white sand or azure water, the infinite number of stars arranged in unfamiliar constellations, the scars of the slave trade still born by the land- Zanzibar is a place of Beauty.  Some of it is happy and some of it is sad, but all of it is Beauty nonetheless.

The Coast with the Most

I often mock the priests who complain about the "cold" Nairobi winters, bundled up in winter jackets in 70 degree weather.  However, that doesn't mean I wasn't thrilled to emerge from the plane in Dar Es Salaam to 90 degree sunshine!  This time of year is also winter in Dar, so I decided right off the bat that A) Dar's winter is probably one of the best in the world and B) I sure as heck never want to be there for their summer.

Fr. Kamanzi and I were picked up from the airport by Fr. Cyprian and Fr. Severini and were whisked away to the parish at Tabata, our home base for the week.  The church is gorgeous, a triumph of the missionary zeal of the Apostles of Jesus.  When the parish was first established, there was nothing in Tabata but bush and sand.  I am amazed by the clear vision possessed by the first Apostle of Jesus who went there.  He knew then that the parish would be a pillar of the future community and that people would be drawn to the area by the presence of the parish community.  Now, less than 2 decades later, the church is filled beyond its 1500 capacity every Sunday for all three of its liturgies, and the schools and other programs associated with it are flourishing.

Dar Es Salaam is practically the capital of Tanzania.  It is the biggest port in East Africa, has the largest population of any Tanzanian city, and hosts most of the diplomatic presence in Tanzania.  The only thing it doesn't have, it seems, is the title of "Capital", which belongs to Dodoma about 4 hours inland.  Sort of like New York City to NY's Albany, except, you know, NYC is a whole heck of a lot bigger and Dodoma is a whole heck of a lot smaller.

On our first night in Dar, the good Fathers took us to dinner at the beautiful Sea Cliff Hotel.  Once we got through the awful awful awful traffic of center city, we were able to enjoy the luxurious mansions lining the shore of the Indian Ocean.  Our table at dinner was on a deck thrust out over the brink of a cliff.  I spent almost the entire meal staring mesmerized at the crystal clear water, illuminated by the restaurant floodlights.  It was a beautiful place, unfortunately one that could not possibly be captured on film, so you are just going to have to take my word for it.

...and we're back!

After much scrambling, a little improvisation, and a lot of luck, Mom and I arrived safely at Mazzoldi House around 10pm on Sunday night (that's 3pm EST- 27.5 hours after we left the house).  I have often been informed that flights will be delayed, but I have never been told that my flight was leaving 2 hours earlier than planned.  All should marvel at how quickly the Pressimone family mobilized to get Mom and I to the airport in time for a 2:20 flight.  There are costs, though.  I am certain I will continue to realize the little things I forgot to throw in a bag during the fracas for the next 5 weeks.

And I don't want to sound like a commercial, but I am never not using a travel agent again!  I booked our flights through Liberty Travel (Nancy at the Berkshire Mall branch, tell her I sent you), and the moment that Delta started changing our flight times, she called my house, gave me the details, listed the options, and worked her butt off to get us on a plane to make all of our connections.  She totally rocks.

Anyway, we're here now, and have already hit the ground running.  Fr. Kamanzi took us to the Major Seminary at Langata and showed us around Karen.  Mom has been in a state of awe since we got off the plane.  I can't wait for her to share with you some of her experiences!

Now I am off to brutally slaughter this jet-lag that has been dogging me all day.  Tomorrow, the activity really picks up as we visit all of the AJAM (Apostles of Jesus AIDS Ministry) sites.

Be well!

On the Road Again

It's hard to believe I've only been home for 3.5 months.  So much has happened!  On April 20th, I achieved a lifelong goal of becoming an aunt (though I admit that my sister Cassy did do most of the heavy lifting).  On June 16th we welcomed another new member to the family when my sister Steph married the man of her dreams.  There has been joy, celebration, hellos and goodbyes.

And now it is time to return to Africa.

This time I will be traveling in Kenya and Tanzania, retracing some familiar routes and exploring new ones.  I don't want to give anything away, but I am finally going to experience the East African coast!

And here's the kicker, the icing on the cake, the Triunfo del Amor...


My MOM (aka Fred) is coming with me!

It has been her dream since high school, maybe longer, to travel to Africa.  It is a gross understatement to say that she is wildly excited about the trip.  She will be with me for 2 weeks, and I will stay on for an additional 3 weeks.  You will be hearing from her in a "guest-blogger" capacity.  (Which is lucky for everyone, because she is a much better writer than I am.)  This is the first time she and I have traveled together since we famously tackled Ireland and northern England back in 1998.  We are long overdue for a reunion tour.

Look out, world! Here we come!

It's Gonna Take A Lot to Drag Me Away From You

Okie dokes, folks! This is my last official post from Africa! I leave tonight on the 10:55 flight for Amsterdam. A little more than 24 hours later (oof) I will be landing at Newark. This is the second time I’ve left Africa. In 2010, I left without know when/if I’d be back, but I had 4 crazy days of adventure in Belgium, Luxembourg, and Germany to help numb the pain of leaving. This time, I know that I’ll be back in just 3 months, and that I will have even more time to explore the wonders of East Africa. In the grand scheme of things, my relationship with Africa and my friendship with the Apostles of Jesus are still in their Spring. And I am in it for the long haul.

I hope that you’ve enjoyed journeying with me through this blog. Thank you so much for reading along. There will probably be a few more posts after I get home (some stuff I already have in the works), and a lot of picture updates to old posts. I hope you'll come on back in June when travels resume, this time with some friends! (Speaking of which, if you have been reading along and think that you would seriously like to come and visit the missions of the Apostles of Jesus, let me know! Shoot me an email @ jo dot pressimone at gmail dot com.)

Without further ado, here are my top 5 favorite experiences from this trip to Kenya, Tanzania, and Uganda:

5. Seeing the stars over Lima Farm in Uganda

4. Have a gorgeous view of Lake Victoria from my balcony in Bukoba, Tanzania.

3. Being blessed with Kilimanjaro’s company on the ride back from Arusha, Tanzania.

2. My entire day in Maziba, especially receiving the khanga from Fr. Kamanzi’s sisters

1. Every moment that I got to spend with Fr. Kamanzi

Special shout-out to Fr. John Baptist Nkurunugi, AJ, my dear friend and travel companion. He was with me on every step of this journey, and I am so grateful from his friendship. Lord knows I would have been lost without him!

See you state-side!