I was working through this thought in my mind during our trip to South Africa the year before, when we went to Robben Island, the prison where Nelson Mandela spent so much of his life.
I remember the day well, when the ex-prisoner who was our tour guide told our group about why he decided to forgive, and then the ferry ride back to Cape Town where Lara and I watched a man sitting toward the back of the boat whom we recognized as a guide. His shoes seemed different, his way of looking out at the water was different, and he was alone. And although none of these things individually would add up to him being an ex-prisoner and guide, with all of them together we knew that he was. And when Lara realized that he seemed to be the only person on the ferry not looking back at Robben Island, I thought it meant something.
In the year and a half since, I have tried to write about the experience and have sent Lara strange emails out of the blue to ask her if she has an answer yet. If she has figured out yet why he wasn’t looking back.
In Vietnam, a year and a half later, we talk about that man. She says she still isn’t sure why the man didn’t turn his head to look at Robben Island, and neither am I. But I think that maybe it has to do with him trying to forget and trying to forgive a little more each day. As we talk about the man, and forgiveness, and September 11, and everything that happened that day, we say how much we miss the Africa we had started to see, and how we’d like to go back.
Claire
Chapter 5
Kenya is our nineteenth country, and our last.
Along the way, we go to Lara’s birthplace of Cairo and see a beautiful church built into the side of a mountain with a stench like nothing we have ever smelled. All the city’s garbage workers live here—the Christians whose religion doesn’t forbid them from working alongside the garbage-sorting hogs.
I lose my passport in China, only discovering that fact when the Mongolian border police kick us off a midnight train as we try to enter their country. We spend a pleasantly dull week in the Chinese border town, twiddling our thumbs as our mothers, on the other side of the globe, sit terrified at our predicament. We blog about it, which sets them off even further, and I find my mother in the comments section, writing in capital letters to the effect of: STOP BLOGGING. CALL ME.
We board the Trans-Siberian Railway in Siberia, bound for Moscow. The dust seeps in through every crack of the train, and I am miserable. Two days later we jump off and fly the rest of the way.
We come to Kenya to climb a mountain.
On Everest, altitude sickness had me shivering in a sleeping bag for a full day and night before Lara, holding my hand, forced me to stumble down several thousand feet to clearheadedness in what was surely the slowest day of hiking known to man. We hear, though, that one experience with the sickness doesn’t predict another, so we look to climb again, this time in the heart of the Africa we missed.
A friend of Lara meets us in Nairobi for the climb and brings with her a recommendation from a family friend of an inexpensive guesthouse we can stay at near the base of the mountain. We gladly accept. The fact that an orphanage owns the guesthouse is immaterial; it is just a place to sleep.
We spend a few days in Nairobi first, getting to know the capital while we luxuriate in a lovely cottage in the suburb of Karen, named for one of my favorite authors—Karen Blixen of Out of Africa fame. We see the house she lived in and visit a giraffe sanctuary where the animals have a trick of eating out of tourists’ mouths. We take a video and put it on our blog, which, in the year since we started it, has become more popular than we ever imagined. Many thousands are still reading about our hapless travels.
The morning we set out to make the journey to the guesthouse near the mountain, we take tea in the picturesque suburban garden while waiting for the ride the orphanage has kindly arranged. There is a series of loud honks at the gate, and we are surprised when a truckload of Kenyan teens pulls into the drive in a yellow van, telling us to get in back.
We do, and we try to make sense of it all and where we are going. I know almost nothing about what Imani Children’s Home is and why it owns a guesthouse, and I am baffled as to why there are so many people in the van.
“Are they orphans?” I whisper to Lara as we reach the outskirts of Nairobi, jostling together on the bench seats in the cramped compartment. And then, “Why are they all here?” In the typical over-the-top hospitality that we would come to learn Imani is known for, a dozen teens had been sent on an eight-hour round trip to bring us to our night’s lodging at the guesthouse on their property.
By the time we near the guesthouse outside of Nyeri, I am famished. Our lunch of biscuits (sweet cookies, as we know them in the United States; “bees-quits” as the Imani kids pronounce them) at a roadside gas station—although ideal for the nausea-inducing roads—did little to curb my appetite, and when the teens say we’ve been invited to a late lunch with the church elders who run the orphanage and guesthouse, we readily agree. We tumble out of the van and pass lush green gardens as we enter a small building that stands in a loose cluster near a large three-story orphanage, a church, and an imposing dining hall. Lunch has been laid out on a long table.
It is in the middle of the lunch that something changes. Maybe it is the little girl I glimpse weeding the orphanage gardens with a smile as wide as Oklahoma, or the bright yellow sun on the grassy lawns, or the milk tea and food in my belly. Or maybe it is the sign I didn’t know I was looking for.
I ask to use the restroom and am taken to a simple, spotless room where an old mirror hangs over the sink. As I look in that mirror, I have a moment I have never had before or since, where I can feel something changing, and I ask God to let me see.
“If you have put this place in my road to change me,” I say, looking at my scratched reflection, “please open my eyes so I can see.”
After lunch, we go to meet the children, a few of whom have already shyly come up to us. When Lara rounds up a group of kids to play Duck, Duck, Goose, I ask to be let into the orphanage’s small library. I had volunteered briefly in New Orleans with my friend Amalia after Hurricane Katrina and had spent an entire day in a community center trying to put order to their books. Here I think of doing the same thing. The library, for me, feels a safer way to connect with the kids. In Egypt, we had spent an hour at a children’s home while in transit to somewhere else, and I had felt so uncomfortable—paranoid about giving the children attention, about hurting them, about seeming a white savior who was here today and gone tomorrow. I remember the strong sense that I shouldn’t interact with them too much unless I could offer them more than simply leaving.
That day in Kenya, Lara doesn’t overthink things like I do, and I hear happy shouts from the lawn. In the library, I am impressed by the number of books in the space and immediately set to work trying to organize things better. Slowly, small children, surprised the library is open on a weekday, start filtering in.
Although I love children, and these children are lovely, in the library I can’t help but feel sad as I watch them, hating the idea that they are somehow pandering to me—the white visitor. Hating the idea that they try to be cute. Hating the idea that the small attention I am giving them this afternoon is so craved. Hating that I will soon leave.
At one point in the afternoon, a small, skinny boy comes in, watching me as I read to a group of little ones. We start talking, and I am amazed at how his English is far, far better than that of any of the other children I have met that day. When he tells me how much he likes our senator Obama, I am taken aback, and it intensifies my feeling that this boy, who doesn’t look more than ten, must truly be special.
After we eat dinner with the children at the dining hall, we retreat to the orphanage’s guesthouse. That night I tell Lara I am thinking about staying at the orphanage and not climbing Mount Kenya at all. Another idea starts to form in my head, one in which we come back here for a longer period of time. We have been traveling for nine months at that point, but we both feel that we somehow aren’t d
one yet and have been wondering what could be next. I say some of these things to Lara, and she nods agreeably, nonchalantly open to such a big new thing.
When Lara and her friend Kelly leave for the climb, I decide to fast on the decision and tell myself I will read the whole Bible before eating again. This, I believe, will take three days. I am a fast reader and can skim some of the Old Testament, I figure. I have never fasted before.
The orphanage staff thinks it beyond strange that I want to stay alone in the guesthouse, but they allow me to do so. The house is not far from the orphanage, after all, and there are two night watchmen and a caretaker, so they agree.
I start fasting Friday night and spend most of Saturday reading the Bible and talking with John, the guesthouse’s caretaker, who still remains one of the more hysterical characters I ever met in Kenya. We throw barbs back and forth all weekend as I hide from him the fact I’m not eating—unsure of how the concept of fasting goes over in a place of so little.
After church on Sunday, I spend the day with the kids in the library, organizing books and playing board games. I meet Paul and Stephanie, the two missionaries living at Imani, and like them immediately. I have never met a real missionary, and whatever I thought one would be like is nothing like what Paul and Stephanie really are. I tell them that I want to return—I now know it with certainty—and they are supportive and tell me the list of elders I’ll need to ask permission from.
The fast, for what it’s worth, is a bust. I faint by the time I hit Leviticus. The fast is over, my decision made.
Lara is still on the mountain and knows none of this.
When she returns and I tell her about the strange series of events, it is settled. After a year of living for ourselves, a year in which we realized daily how lucky we are, coming to an orphanage and seeing need has surely impacted us in no small way. The nature of the idea at all—and Lara’s simple enthusiasm—is no small testament to this. We leave Imani knowing we will be back in a few months’ time, following the Christmas holidays.
A couple weeks after leaving, we contact Reverend Mathu and the Imani elders to confirm the dates of our return and ask what they think might be useful for us to do while we’re there. Lara and I had already decided that we wanted to train for a particular marathon in Kenya during our stay—the only one in the world on a wildlife reserve—and so are floored when they bring up the idea of an after-school running program. We love the idea immediately.
The kids at Imani, we know, are desperate for extracurricular programming. As orphan care experts can explain, once the basic needs of food and clothes and schooling are met, it’s easy to forget how important nourishing activities can be in helping to develop traumatized children into healthy adolescents. At the same time, we know the elders at Imani are passionate about ensuring the children have activities to do. The less idle time they have, the less likely they are to fall into trouble or become overwhelmed by their pasts. We begin to think that we could train some of the older adolescents along with us for the marathon. We write letters telling friends and family about what we’re doing, asking for visitors, donations to Imani, and running shoes.
By the time we arrive back in Kenya, we have some donated funds, several hundred pairs of running shoes, and a conviction: we will run.
Sammy
Chapter 6
I am glad to have finished my primary school studies and the KCPE secondary school entrance exam and am waiting to hear my scores to see if I can go on to secondary school. There is a two-month waiting period to find out, and I don’t have much to do except sit and worry.
One day I am putting some clothes out to dry on the lawn after washing when I see that the door to the library is open. This intrigues me, and I go to the door and see kids inside. This isn’t a normal day for the library to be open, so I happily walk in to borrow a book.
Upon entering, I see at the head of the table a white girl, a mzungu, with yellow bangs—or, as I call them at the time, “the things in front of the eyes.” She is reading a book to the little kids about David and Goliath. When I see that it is a Christian book, I am particularly interested, because I like these kinds of stories. I also want to know about this new face in the orphanage.
I sit down to listen. She is speaking very slowly and clearly in English, and as I listen I begin interrupting her to ask questions. As the little ones look on, we start talking about things: the United States, education, books, English, technology, and Obama. For some reason, she is very intrigued with the fact that I know about Obama, whom we see on the news in Kenya and I read about when I see a newspaper.
Afterward we go for dinner. It is githeri day, and I learn that this girl has never had the maize and bean mixture before. She asks for salt, and I happily run to the kitchen to get some, because it means that I will get salt also! Usually they don’t allow salt for us.
After dinner, I ask her name, and she tells me it is Claire. The next day I don’t see Claire, but I am still happy I have made a friend. Even if she will leave, like all visitors.
A few days later it comes for us: our rite of passage.
After graduating from eighth grade in Kenya, young men are circumcised. In the Kikuyu tribe, circumcision is a tradition that means we change from boys into men.
In Kikuyu, every young man must be circumcised. Any young men who are not circumcised are called kihii, a derogatory term no one ever wants to hear in reference to themselves.
As I have been taught, circumcision is a cultural moment that teaches us to be strong—not just physically but mentally as well. While we endure the pain, we learn important life lessons.
I am told that it is time for my age group to enter into our circumcision program at the nearby Presbyterian parish. There is a church service to get us prepared for the event, and that night we have a delicious dinner and pray hard. This is where I first meet a man named Mr. Avery, the director of the program. He is smart and well built and one of the first men I ever come to look up to.
Along with my friends from Imani, we enter the program with fifty other boys our age. That first night I see boys around me everywhere doing things that kihiis—uncircumcised boys—would do. They cry, they scream, they beg to be passed over. Not things that real men do. Over the next two days we know that all of us boys will be crying like no other.
The next day the first group is taken at 5:00 a.m. When they return, I see the grief on their faces. They are walking very, very slowly, and I begin to get extremely scared. When 8:00 comes, it is my turn. I enter the small matatu minibus to go to the hospital, and on the way the driver jokes, “Hey, boys, you might want to respect me because I will be the one driving you back.” We don’t know what he means until he hits the curvy, bumpy part of the road, and we start to wonder how we’ll be able to handle this road on the way back when we are in pain and bleeding.
We don’t know what is going to happen, and we are afraid. When we get to the hospital, I see five people waiting in line ahead of me. Five people between me and the door. Beyond that door, I know, is pain.
I become very scared, and this is when Mr. Avery, the director of the program and a man I had instantly respected, calls me over. He tells me his life philosophy—that bad and painful moments come and go, and they are all part of the life we are called to live. The best thing we can do is deal with everything as well as possible. When I sit down, I ponder these words and find myself growing calmer.
Soon there are only four people left, then three, then two, then one. Then it is my turn. As I walk through the door, I know there is no going back.
Inside, the nurse puts me in a surgery room where there is another person being operated on. As I listen to the screams, I realize that forty-five minutes have passed. I cannot stop imagining what is going on in there. Then they bring me through the curtain. I lie down on the bed, and they tell me to take off my clothes. I see the doctor take a syringe and put some medicine in it. There is a first burst of terrible hurt and then forty-five minutes
more of a horrific, dull, endless pain.
When it is finished, I am so glad. I remember having asked if it would hurt, and now I know the answer. It is very, very painful. As I walk outside, I have to walk like I am riding on a horse. I can’t wear my underwear, so I put it in my pocket. When we get back on the bus, I remember that we now have to go back on that horrible road.
The next two days feel like torture.
For two weeks we live in the dorms at a nearby church, taking men’s classes and learning about life, HIV and AIDS, high school, and hygiene. Then we are moved to another nearby orphanage to recover for a few more weeks. The orphanage, Upendo, was started by the same Reverend Mathu who started Imani, but it is much smaller and not nearly as nice. There are many disabled children who live here, and it is a good place for us to stay because it has extra rooms.
At Upendo, we eat some of the best food of my life. It is around Christmastime, so there are many visitors and lots of festivity. The month is filled with new friends and wonderful fun. It is also during this time that I realize I can dance!
On January 3, once the holidays are over, we are supposed to return to Imani. Just as planned, Reverend Mathu (Guka) comes to tell us it is time to leave. But I am not ready to return to Imani. I have learned so much in the past few weeks of living there about what it means to live with true kindness. Living with disabled children who take care of each other, even though they are only children themselves, has opened my eyes. But I have heard that every end is a new beginning, and I return to Imani with the hope that this is true.
Hope Runs Page 6
