Nikita

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket of your selfishness. But in that casket-safe, dark, motionless, airless-it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable."

-C.S. Lewis

I had a few fears when I first came here. Some reasonable--contracting an illness, being mugged, getting lost--some not so reasonable--being mauled by a hippopotamus, having to battle Somali pirates in the Indian Ocean, my plane crashing in the Maasai Mara and needing to cannibalize my fellow passengers in order to survive. The one potentially terrifying occurrence that never crossed my mind, and probably the most far fetched given my indifference toward children, was morphing into a 31 year old male Sally Struthers. So when Jill wanted to visit an abandoned baby that she had cared for last year, my concern for rationale and emotional restraint was aimed at the more compassionate member of this duo. Being the ever practical boyfriend that I am and knowing Jill as well as I do I formed, what I felt was, a reasonable checklist of caution: 1. Jill's seemingly happy and non-emotional demeanor, check. 2. Jill's lack of Kleenex for crying when we leave, check. 3. An evening appointment to keep us from staying all day, check. 4. Jill's hand bag being too small to fit a two and a half year old child into, check. 5. Emotionally distant boyfriend to serve as voice of reason......I thought that was the most emphatic check, I thought wrong.

Nikita walked into the front room of her cottage bearing the body language of a child who had spent her first 30 months of existence in survival mode. I have never seen the eyes of a two and a half year old so coldly analytical, I have never seen a child whose movements were so cautiously calculated, whose face was so stoically perceptive. One by one she stared both of us squarely in the face and piece by piece she broke our hearts. "Do you know her name?" the caretaker asked. "Mazungu (Swahili for white person)," Nikita quietly responded. After fully satisfying her suspicions and looking to her care taker for approval, Nikita sat cautiously on the couch keeping an eye on Jill, who was nearest her.

Throughout the visit the toddler was able to manage us--through the occasional smirk or smile--while also managing herself--using the potty, washing for dinner, feeding herself, and clearing her own dishes. She seemed a bit puzzled at first; I seriously doubt that the girl had spent much time playing with adults, let alone "Mazungu" adults, but she eventually warmed up to Jill. Despite her toleration of our intrusion, I sensed a void in Nikita; an emotional distance that I have never witnessed in a child. It was not intentional on her part, I hardly think she was aware of it. Perhaps it was the lack of a true maternal connection, maybe it was a necessity of adapting to the chaos that was a 7-child cottage; whatever it was this perfectly healthy, beautiful child was missing something emotionally. I scarcely recognized my own reaction, it was just uncharacteristic of me. I wanted to pick her up and hold her, I wanted to read her books and give her chocolate and soda, I wanted to give her more toys than a child knew what to do with; all of the things that we (Americans) do to overindulge our children and show them what we think is love. It was probably a typical reaction to the type of situation that I typically choose to ignore, or not think about, or look away from, or turn the channel from. But when you are staring the situation in the face, when that situation is an abandoned child sitting on your lap wondering why you now all of the sudden care......it's eye opening.

Nikita finally warmed up to us, she eventually smiled more freely. At one point before lunch she got down off of the couch, quickly and happily spun in a circle and then quickly sat back down. I doubt that she will remember us the next time we visit her; the Mazungu who came to visit her and was overcome with emotion at a situation that, to her, is just life. But I know I won't forget her, I won't forget how amazingly resilient she seemed and I won't forget the level of self disappointment that I felt for intentionally keeping myself in the dark.

Observations:

1. My last week in Kenya was apparently rotten onion week. A Kenyan celebration that involves putting overly ripe onions in and on EVERYTHING. Thanks Poa Place for my delicious chicken bone and onion panini.

2. Soccer games can end in ties? "WHAT IS THE POINT OF PLAYING," I was yelling at the Kenyans in the local Eldoret night club where we watched the English Premier League game.

3. I never would have dreamt that I would have missed cooking for myself so much. I just went crazy at the store and bought a ton of meat. Tonight's meal: roasted pork shoulder in my own homemade bbq sauce with corn and homemade potato chips......hello American meal.

Daylight

"The greatest gift is a portion of thyself."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Despite all of my third world grumblings about living in a "developing country", despite the totally bizarro world that is the IU House, and despite having to occasionally tolerate a few socially castrated Americans who use this place as a safe haven for their weirdness; there is one thing here that I have discovered to be a saving grace. Witnessing incredibly talented people engaged in the reciprocal nature of sharing their unbelievable gifts has been Kenya's redeeming quality.

Two time Grammy Award winning singer Sylvia McNair brought her talent here this week in the form of a concert in the courtyard of the AMPATH building. The AMPATH building is a microcosm of life in Kenya. When you first walk in you are confronted with long, low lit, gray hallways that extend endlessly into corridors, offices, waiting rooms and stairwells. There are frequently patients waiting to be seen sitting on anything they can find as they overflow into the hallway from the designated check in areas. The scene seems hopeless and the suffering unending as HIV positive adults and children seek treatment. But if you choose to venture down that ominously heartbreaking hallway you will discover an absolute treasure in the heart of suffering--an open air courtyard in the middle of the building. The courtyard shares it's gifts of blue skies and sun light with each floor via open wrap around balconies. Similarly as you visit the various offices, labs, and administrative divisions the original perception of despair begins to fade and gives way to hope. The Kenyans and Americans that occupy this building in various capacities have made enormous strides in containing the HIV pandemic. Each participant bringing their own unique gift, each participant choosing to be a part of something greater than the individual successes or monetary gains that their talents could surely yield.

Sylvia chose the courtyard of the AMPATH building as her venue this week. Her performance was amazing, resonating a series of songs in several languages that radiated out of the vibrant courtyard and through the dismal halls. She seemingly crafted a song for each individual in the multi-national crowd, which sat captivated on every balcony of the four story building. I know that I should really stop with the prison movie references, but I could not help but think of the Morgan Freeman quote from Shawshank Redemption:

"I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can't be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free."

I can only imagine what Joe and Sara Ellen Mamlin felt to hear their friend and one of their favorite performers bring such a gift half way around the world. I think they were happy to hear a piece of home, I think they were happy to be able to share that with so many people. There is a picture below of Joe leaning against a wall, swaying slightly to the music. The look on his face was that far off gaze of a man who is enjoying a moment on a personal mental oasis.....physically standing right in front of us but cognitively and spiritually a million miles away.

Observations:

1. Quality control does not exist here. I have had "ketchup" (here called Peptang) at least a dozen different times and each bottle tastes totally different.

2. Nobody in the world does milk shakes better than the United States, and nobody screws them up worse than Kenya. I'm currently writing a letter to the president of Kenya requesting that he make the first amendment to their new constitution a ban of milk shakes.

3. Music, culture, and art forms that flow from the heart transcend linguistic barriers and serve as the common language of humankind.

Euphoria!!

"Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing it is not fish they are after."

-Henry David Thoreau

Anyone who knows me understands that since I was old enough to walk I desired to spend the majority of my leisure time fishing. By grade school my desire had turned into a firm addiction that I never sought the wagon for. So given the chance to fish one of Ernest Hemingway's favorite Marlin haunts (Indian Ocean near Mombasa, Kenya) I did what any junky would do, I indulged myself.

After making several calls to local captains I finally found a recommended man at a reasonable rate. I even managed to pick up a fishing partner to split the fare with. A portly Englishman named Mike of about 60 years with barely manageable gray hair and totally unmanageable black eyebrows. After quizzing me about life growing up in Illinois--"you all ride around in those open back trucks there, do you?"--we reconvened on Saturday morning and walked a quarter mile down the beach to meet Captain Rob Hellier. We found Rob at, what I presume was, his local coffee spot chatting with a few other local charter captains. I quickly realized that what Rob lacked in spoken words he made up for in body language and beard. It was an all time great beard; imagine a viking beard, pirate beard, and caveman beard thrown in a blender and then tossed on Captain Rob's face.

After expressing his displeasure to the all Kenyan crew--non-verbally of course--over a mechanical issue, Rob took us out. The sea was angry that day, we were in a 40+ foot boat with twin Caterpillar diesels and we were getting tossed hard the first hour. My partner for the day the Englishman, who was normally never at a loss for words, was still. No movement, no talking, just the jaw clenched, white faced, gaze toward the toilet that screams I am going to be sea sick.....and was he ever. It was a shame because Rob put us on more fish than any one man should be able to reel in for a day, but I managed.

Even though I did not land a black marlin or a sailfish, the ocean and Captain Rob provided enough fish to produce a good sized blister on my right thumb. As I sat there gazing out into the ocean with, what I am sure was, a sappy looking grin on my face and arms dragging from pumping and reeling so many fish, I felt home. I did not feel at home, I felt home, I felt where I was from, and for the first time in over a month I actually felt like myself. It was close to a perfect day, one of those days that you wish you could capture and keep as pure as the instant it happened.

Below are some pictures of the fish I caught. In all fairness Mike, the sea sick Englishman, did manage to take time out from hollering Charlie down below to land three fish.

Daily observations:

1. The Kenyan subsistance fishermen are insane!! These guys are a mile out, six guys in an eight foot boat, in ten foot swells.

2. I am the WORST snorkeler ever, even with a life jacket and lifeguard at my side I still failed miserably.

3. It was difficult driving through all of the poverty just to stay at a resort that probably does not pay their employees a decent wage. Its like driving past a sweatshop to pick up your Nikes.