Tuk Tuks & Bumpy Roads

“This is good”, said Pam, as we rattled along Nyalenda Road in a noisy old tuk tuk, “much better than a motorbike”.

The boys brigade were camping at Kibos, so Pam and I had said we would make our own way to church at Kachok and meet them there. I had suggested a motorcycle taxi, or even a boda boda, but Pam refused. “I wouldn’t feel safe on them” she said. It was hard to argue.

Kisumu’s roads are undergoing a huge upgrade which has left the city centre gridlocked and the side roads riddled with bumps and an eclectic variety of the largest and most obstructive vehicles ever conceived. At one point, outside the busiest supermarket mall in the town, new water pipes are being installed. This seemingly major undertaking apparently requires the use of a crane parked, helpfully, right in the middle of the road leading to the mall. Getting past the obstruction requires much tooting of horns, revving of engines and the use of a couple of Swahili words with which my 13 years of coming to Kenya have not so far made me familiar.

“Kachok church begins promptly at 9:00” said Moses the night before, as he dropped us off at St Anna’s, “we will see you there.”

Pam and I arrived promptly at 9:05, still rattling a little from the tuk tuk, to be greeted by one or two familiar smiling faces.

Moses arrived promptly at 11:05 (after running out of petrol en route from Kibos), by which time the small tin hut on the edge of the rubbish dump was bursting with people of all ages and all sizes.

By this time we had praised, we had preached and we had danced. As we had sung our worship the rhythm was enthusiastically played out on an old tin drum by a lady who looked old enough to be my grandmother. Either drumming is good for you or her sons had left home and she was missing something to beat.

Since Moses had brought his guitar (and our visitors from the boys brigade fresh(?) from their overnight camp, we somehow squeezed up and sang some more. It would have been rude not to.

“There isn’t room to stand and dance”, said Moses as he swung his guitar around the heads of the gathered congregation, “So just move your head like this”, his head lilted rhythmically from side to side. “If it becomes too infectious, then try to move your arms up in the air”

I love Kachok church.

On first inspection there doesn’t seem much to like. The rubbish is dumped just outside and the smell drifts unmistakeably into the little tin hut. Large black flies buzz around, swirling up around your feet as worship rhythms are tapped out

But this is church. People come here looking for God.

One lady, Jane, travels 8 km from her home to come to church here. Not so remarkable in England, except that she is blind. Travelling anywhere for her is an effort, but she loves the worship and the fellowship that she finds at Kachok.

Romanus shared testimony, how he burned 50,000 ksh of Marijuana (about £400 - a small fortune in Kenya) when he met Jesus. He now earns a living riding a boda boda, despite his failing sight. He had been knocked of his bike yesterday afternoon by a pushy motorcyclist, on the broken bumpy roads near the Mall, sustaining a few bruises. He had come, not to complain about the accident, but to thank God that he had been spared worse injury.

Kevin is in secondary school, he is eloquent and a great singer. He led us in worship and shared his belief that he could follow others from the dump site who have made it to university.

We shared needs and we prayed together, we prayed for the sick (there were many names shared), for life’s struggles and life’s difficulties. And we prayed in an atmosphere of hope.

It was a delight.

When we finished we went down to Kibos, for my second church of the day, and as I went in I met with some of our first boys, those who came to us early in the program. It was a joy to see them.

Dennis is living his life independently, earning a living selling nuts and eggs and more around the streets of Kondele.  He has a house in Manyatta and looks happy. He leads me by the hand and introduces me to his wife, Mercy, and their two lovely children Geoffrey and Moses.

We met Elvis and Moses Peace, going through training to be an electrician, Collins was back from university, Boniface was heading back to bible college to complete his diploma. So much to catch up on.

And here I sensed the same hope that I felt in Kachok.

We finished the day by the lake shore, with two matatus full of children, eating fish from the Hotel Furaha (it means “happy”). And it was a really happy end to a day full of hope.

For most of the people I have met today the road to where they are has been as rough as Kisumu’s dusty streets, there have been many bumps and obstacles.

But there is still hope.

And that hope is inspiring.

Roast Goat & Campfires

If you are reading this and you have a leather belt within arms length, then I suggest that you take it in your mouth, bite a strip off and chew until it is palatable for you to swallow.

Have you done it yet?

If you have, then you will have some idea of how good it is to eat roast goat ribs.

The Boys Brigade group that are with us had set up their tents in the afternoon in preparation for a lovely evening of camping. The group had brought a number of extra tents, which meant that boys from Kibos and Mamboleo and some who have moved out and begun to make their own way in life could also enjoy an evening under canvas. This made for much excitement around the camp (and much discussion along the lines of “how many boys do you think we could fit in that large tent??”). There is, apparently, nothing quite like the smell of a campfire, the wind in your hair, an amazing starry sky and a sumptuous barbeque. Ok, well three out of four wasn’t bad.

I think some people enjoy it, but I have never got on with goat meat. It doesn’t matter how it is cooked it has a texture that feels like it is trying to the uttermost to blunt my teeth. On the plus side, it is one of the few foods that must require the expending of more calories than it gives you, such is the effort on ones jaws.

I hope this isn’t being ungrateful, because many people had spent a long time preparing the goat as a special celebration of the evenings camping. It was accompanied by Lorine’s lovely and Matt’s slightly misshapen chapattis and a fabulous salad of red onions, capsicum, tomato and coriander leaves.

We had enjoyed an entertaining morning of bartering for souvenirs at the Maasai Market (I am not sure which if the boys bought a spear, but I am hoping that it doesn’t see practical action during their safari at the end of the week) after which we headed down to Kibos for a (very hot) game of football in the mid afternoon sun.

We walked down to the church and the Boys Brigade pitched their tents with remarkable efficiency. “I will not pitch my tent until 5:30” Moses said to me, “because otherwise it will get too hot during the day. I will pitch it when the evening is cool”. Wise words as it transpired, though I wish he had suggested it to the boys brigade!

With tents up we had a walk around the land. The boys haven’t just come as observers, but they wanted to help in a practical way and from Monday to Wednesday they will be building a large greenhouse / poly tunnel (all of the equipment arrived from Nairobi yesterday and is lying ready for swift and efficient assembly!). They will also be putting in over 50 stems of bananas, each one of which requires a hole 3 feet in diameter x 3 feet deep. Not a task for the faint hearted, but the boys seem to be up for it (watch this space for Mondays update!!)

Paula, one of the group leaders, set up a brilliant parachute game and soon the field was full of the sounds of children laughing, running and shouting with joy (is there anything quite as good as the sound of children laughing?). The games must have lasted hours, but the children never seemed to get tired of running around and running under the large, colourful circle of cloth. The team have been a pleasure to have here and the children have loved their company.

In the makeshift camp kitchen the goat was slowly roasting, chapattis were being fried and the evening light quickly made way for the dark.

As so often happens the clear night sky, punctuated with just a few clouds, revealed a hundred thousand stars, each with their place in the scheme of the universe. Under these same stars, over thousands of years, our ancestors have made camp, built fires and roasted meat.

Some of them may still be chewing.

Glorious Fire

“We are now beginning our descent into Kisumu”, the pilots voice crackled into the cabin of the small Kenya Airways plane from Nairobi.

I have travelled this route many times, and now and again this announcement has caught me by surprise. Gazing out of the window at the green, tea covered hillsides far below, or following the winding route of a small road as tiny cars run along the bumpy tracks, red dusty clouds thrown up in their wake I have been lost in the landscape and not noticed that we have started to go down.

But today I knew that we were descending even before the pilot told us.

I knew because, for the last fifteen minutes, we had been skirting around billowing mountains of portentous cumulous, pregnant with storms, before appearing to plunge straight down through the middle of the biggest, greyest and broodiest.

I knew because the small Embraer was being casually and all too easily tossed around by the turbulent air. I wished at that moment that, instead of heading for Kisumu, I had got on the beautifully named “Jambo Jet” (why has no one thought of that before?) to Mombasa for a sunny holiday of beaches and warm seas. Perhaps it would be calmer heading east.

I knew because I was rising and falling in the sky like a ballerina dancing a jubilant solo full of pirouettes and points.

And I knew because my tummy was none too pleased.

I felt Pam’s hand on my arm and glanced across. “That was a bit rocky” she said, demonstrating an effortless mastery of understatement. “It must have been difficult for the pilot to hold it straight” I replied, with only a hint of a smile.

It has been a difficult year for our work in Kibos.

Our landlady, from whom we rented the house in which we have worked and run a rehabilitation home, passed away a couple of years ago and there has been nothing but argument ever since about who should inherit, with two parties staking their claim. To date nothing has been resolved, but things came to a head earlier this year when bailiffs came round, sent by one of the warring factions, threatening to remove all of our furniture and equipment.

We have no quarrel with either party, but, caught in the middle, we felt it was in our best interests to leave and let them fight over it between themselves.

Until a few weeks ago we have been in a house a few kilometres nearer to Kisumu, but one night in the summer robbers came and stole purses and equipment through windows while people slept.

So last month we moved back to Kibos, our home and a village where we feel safe. We are known and respected within the community, where we have provided a small electricity transformer that many houses have benefitted from along with a well and pump that provides a sure source of safe water in the dry seasons. We have rented a new house, much smaller than the last, but very close to our land, whilst we try and build something of our own.

We sat talking with Moses, Tatu and Paul James over a welcome cup of tea in the bright living room. Children played outside and a mechanic worked on the Landrover, trying to get it ready in time for the Ackworth Group to arrive tomorrow.

“It’s much better here”, said Moses, “I know this place, I feel safe”.

He went outside to see how the mechanic was doing and I walked out, cup of tea in hand, to watch. As I looked out towards the hills that tower over Kibos I noticed the light catching the buildings in the distance. 

They shone as if they were gold, the glory of the sun reflected back and standing out against the greyness of the hills. I made a mental note of the image for a future sermon and started to go back inside for my camera

“Have you seen those buildings” said Pam, meeting me in the doorway “Aren’t they beautiful?”.

 

I took a picture or two, then turned to look back at the small house, only to find it set in a glorious fiery landscape. The stormy black rainclouds that had caused such a turbulent arrival, just did not have the power to hold back the majesty of evening.

My hope and prayer is that this is also true for our work here amongst the street children of Kisumu. We have gone through some hard times in the last year or so and we are not yet where we would like to be, but I know that the dark clouds wont always be there.

I am praying for glorious, golden, heavenly fire and I will be thrilled if we can reflect just a little of it.

The Greatest Distance

Pam and I arrived in Nairobi last night after the long flight from Amsterdam. We have been looking forward to this trip, to catching up with Moses and Paul James, seeing how the work is evolving and growing.

Before we came out we were asked almost constantly by people “You wont come back with ebola will you?” to which our reply was to the effect that we were going to be quite a long way from the outbreak, which has gripped Sierra Leone and parts of West Africa.

In fact, Freetown, Sierra Leone is just over 3,500 miles away from Nairobi – or to put that in perspective, about a thousand miles further than Baghdad is from London. 

My home near Burnley in Lancashire is a mere 2,500 miles from the North Pole, considerably closer than we are from the virus outbreak.

Which just goes to show what a vast continent Africa is.

It made me wonder if I’m not guilty sometimes of grouping the wide variety of cultures and countries together under one label. It would be easy to see the African continent as one labelled with poverty, sickness and unable to support itself, but that is unfair on the wonderful and diverse people that live here. Of course there are deserts and wilderness, tribalism and tension, but there are also some of the most beautiful people I know, doing their best in difficult circumstances.

No child would choose to be born in poverty, no parent would wish their child to have to live on the streets.

Perhaps the largest distance we need to cover and overcome is that of our perception.

When Nicky and I first came out to Kisumu we talked with street children in Kisumu, on the rubbish dump, in the slums and in the rural towns and villages. It’s so tempting to label the children as a lost cause, as thieves, as pests, as hopeless and to turn our backs on them. But our experience over the last 13 years is of a picture that is anything but straightforward.

We have children now at University, children with secondary school qualifications training to be nurses, community health workers, special needs assistants. We have welders, motorcycle engineers, car maintenance workers and salesmen. We even have a pastor.

On this trip Pam and I will be accompanied by a small team of volunteers from the Ackworth Boys Brigade, near Pontefract. I did a talk there last year with Hilary on the invitation of Paula, one of the leaders of the group, who had seen something Hilary had shared on Facebook. 

Since that time Paula and Colin, one of the other Group Leaders have raised funds for a trip of their own. We will be working on our land with them, raising up a water tank and putting in some irrigation that they have worked hard to fund.

Whilst this is a wonderful gift to the work here, enabling us to grow vegetables all year instead of just in the rainy season, it is the gift of their time that is the most precious. We look forward to welcoming them to Kisumu tomorrow and to sharing what can happen when we change our perceptions of street children and give them hope for their struggle, seeing what they can become.

A wise man once said that the longest journey we ever undertake is to move what is in our heads eighteen inches downward to our hearts. When we exchange what we thought was knowledge for a deeper understanding, empathy and compassion.