Market day in Nairobi

Maasai Market in Nairobi

This shot was taken just seconds before I was swarmed...

(click to enlarge)

Rachel took us to the Maasai Market later that afternoon.

The contrast between the market in Bissil vs. the market in Nairobi, was startling.

Still vibrant, the bustle and hustle of it all is a bit different.

The hustle starts the moment they see my stark, white skin. It isn't hard since I am the only pale face among the masses.

I barely make it out of the car before I am accosted, harassed and manipulated.

My second to the youngest, competitive, survival of the fittest attitude, kicks in instantly.

Polite at first, I simply say "no thanks".

Once I realize I have an entourage of salesmen and women tugging, yelling, negotiating their way into my pockets, the politeness fades.

Polite completely dissolves when 2 vendors, fighting for my attention, start pushing and yelling, with me stuck in the middle.

I ask them to stop. The man, is trying to persuade me to buy his 7 foot tall Maasai spear, the woman has fabric. They continue to fight over me. The woman shoves the man.

"Unwise", I think to myself, wondering how long it would take the man to use the spear he was waving through the air. In a flash of a moment, I see the spear come down and right through my dress. I look down at my dress and without a beat, grab the spear. Yanking it from the man's hand and my dress, I wave it at him.

"I said, STOP! And if you THINK I am going to buy this spear from you after you STABBED me with it...!"

Shoving it into his chest, I point my finger at him and walk away. He is so stunned, I don't see him again.

Michael, our driver in Nairobi and my fearless escort, "WOW! You are a tough lady."

"I surprise you Michael?"

He laughs and says no.

Getting a glimpse of celebrity, I have a new appreciation for anonymity. I am literally shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, with approximately 10-15 people at any given moment. More wait to shove their way in. I am being yelled at from across the market,

"S'cuse me, s'cuse me! Miss! Miss! Look what I have for you today!"

"Oh, but that is not what I am looking for."

"Hakuna matata! It means...."

"no worries... yes, I know." I've seen the movie, I think to myself. "You are right, there are no worries, because I am looking for something else!"

"oh, MISS! You are not being nice... just LOOK at what I have."

I have mastered the turn and ignore.

I find a soapstone chess set for my husband.

They want to sell it to me for 2000 shillings, or a little more than $25. I walk away.

Vultures, circling, see and hear this and rush in with the promise that their chess set is better.

"How much?" Is all that I consistently say... that and "NO."

They put it back to me.

"How much do you want to spend? Let us start with that." It is simple for me.

"I have 300 shillings." I only have 1000 total and I have more to buy than a chess set.

Huffing and puffing, bulging eyes and all, they stare at me like I have lost my mind. I shrug and keep walking.

I continue to get pulled and pushed. Leon steps in. Looking back and forth, he raises his arms and parts the Red Sea of Maasai. He is well over 6 feet and his wing span is great. I hustle past him and watch as nobody dares pass him.

The chess vendors continue to pursue me.

There price starts to go down, but I continue to bluff.

"One of the vendors down there has some chess. I think he will go down more than that. Thank you."

"OH, but MISS! His is not as nice as mine. LOOK!"

Again, I keep walking. I have noticed that stopping is dangerous, so I keep a consistent shuffle and try not to make eye contact.

I cannot show them how much I enjoy the hunt. How I really am the pursuer, but I am stealth and slow in my game. Creeping along until I find what I am looking for.

It is closing time, so I am at an advantage. Everyone is desperate to make one more sale before we leave.

I go back to the original chess vendor.

"Look. I have 300 shillings."

Staring at me the vendor says no.

I nod and walk away.

"Miss! 450 shillings?"

I walk with a soapstone chess set, 3 bracelets, a Maasai machete, a Maasai spear and a drum-like guitar. I spent a total of 900 shillings. Converted, that's about 12 dollars.

Michael tells me that they are all talking about the "white" lady.

"What are they saying Michael?"

"They are saying that if every white person was like you, they would be out of business. You got very fair, low prices... very fair."

Maybe next time I will pay what they ask. WHY? To be generous. But, first, I will negotiate down to a fantastic price, then hand them what they originally asked.

For me, it was a game. For them, it is life.

Ngong Hills and the Olepolos church

Congregation of Olepolos Church

click to enlarge either picture

"As long as there is poverty in Africa, there will be AIDS."

The statement rings in my ears.

I understand it.

I don't like it.

There still needs to be education about preventing disease transmission. We still need to smash some of the misconceptions and lies that are being spread.

Having sex with a virgin, does NOT cure AIDS.

Scrubbing your body after sex, does NOT cure AIDS.

My friend, Heidi, just went to S. Africa, where their current President was accused of rape. He made an announcement to the country that he couldn't possibly have AIDS, as he had taken a shower afterwards. They are also told that if they eat well, lots of carrots, beet root, onions... then that will prevent the spread of this disease!

I tell all this to Thuo Peter.

He nods, but he knows what he knows.

None of that matters, there is still poverty, still hunger.

It is time to go.

In the car, I have a pamphlet about Bloodborne Pathogens. I happened to bring it along, sure I would find someone that needed it. I hand it to Thuo Peter and tell him to read it and pass it along.

"This," I say, pointing at the pamphlet, "is what people need to know. It is the truth."

"Where did you get this?" He asks.

"I teach it back in the United States."

(I recently received an email from Thuo Peter saying that he has been "given new information" with the book I gave him and he was very thankful.)

We arrive back at our home in Nairobi and all go our separate ways, ready for showers and clean clothes. Washing away the layers of dirt from Bissil, I feel a sense of relief followed by grief. What would it be to never wash this filth from your skin? To never feel the dewey softness of fresh, clean skin? The smell of Johnson and Johnson wafting up from your baby, swaddled and pristine after a bath? To worry about parasites... snakes, mosquitos?

I have never been more thankful for a lukewarm shower.

The next morning, we are scheduled to preach at Pastor Joshua's church, Olepolos, in Ngong Hills.

We drive up the narrow dirt streets, navigating around donkey carts and people pushing their way up the steep grade. There are tin shanty's lining the road. Discarded signs, made into homes.

The church is small and looks more like a campsite pavilion. The bathroom, a hole in the ground about 50 yards from the front door. It is an outhouse, but we are told that if we need to go, we are to take a man, "for security".

I decide I won't need to go.

We are lead to the stage and sit, waiting for the congregation to arrive. It is a small church, the majority of people being children. Wanda asks me if I have anything.

I say no.

The music starts, Leon finally has a guitar and is able to participate. Pastor Joshua stands in the back, singing and dancing the traditional Maasai dance.

I look out at the children. They are dancing, jumping, singing.

"I have something."

Wanda nods, "okay."

I am handed the microphone.

"I want to talk to the children today", I say as I walk down to stand with them.

The Sunday school teacher tells them to stand back up.

"How many of you know that God loves you?"

Most of the children raise their hands.

"How many of you know that God speaks to you?"

None of the children raise their hands.

"How many of you have dreams?"

All of them raise their hands.

I tell them about dreams. About hearing "Mungu Tosha" the first night I arrived.

About how God speaks to us in dreams and visions. How He loves us enough to whisper in our ears when we are afraid. I tell them how God had been whispering to me about Africa since I was younger then they were. How if they listen closely, they will hear too.

As I hand over the mike, Nelly whispers in my ear that a number of the women are, "positive".

I stop in my tracks for just a moment, unsure of why she tells me this.

There was a certain tone to the comment that made me want to wrap up the women and take them home. They had such hunger in their eyes. Desperation. They wanted to be healed, cured from this death warrant. I looked at each of them. At their children clinging to their necks.

There was the wrenching inside of me, seeing this sickness shred and discard these families... wrenching these mothers from their babies.

It is a devourer, HIV/AIDS.

Leaving Bissil

Click to enlarge... Giraffe

We were supposed to go to Kilimanjaro, but hadn't made it there. Leaving Bissil, I look out, over the plains to where Papa Samson had told me it was. On a clear day, early in the morning, we could have seen it. I had a certain longing to see it, step foot on it, stand at the base, in awe.

Kilimanjaro is the tallest mountain in Africa and even more interestingly, is free standing.

Like it's saying, "no other mountain can compare, so I stand alone."

It also has snow at the top. "Big deal" you may say, but it is not far south of the Equator.

So, I would have stood in awe.

Instead, I stare at the open space where I know it should be.

I will it to appear, but it doesn't oblige.

"Next time", I think.

I watch as the land whizzes by. I wonder how the transition back to green will feel for me.

There is a certain amount of relief, knowing that in a few hours I can take a warm shower and change into clean clothes. I think about the parasites in the sand and fight the urge to scratch my skin off. Regardless, I feel like I am leaving myself behind. I feel grief.

The car is extraordinarily quiet, Wanda, asleep in the back... Leon too, I think.

I ask Barnabas about his job as a Safari driver. What is the most exciting thing he has seen.

He tells us a story about a lion and a water buffalo.

"We came upon a lion and buffalo fighting." (Picture this with a wonderful African accent...)

"We could not tell who was winning. They are both so strong.

The lion's pride was standing off to the side, the other male lions watching, waiting."

"Did they not help him out of respect?" I ask.

"Yes. It is how it is. He must fight his own fight.

The buffalo stabbed the lion with his horn.

Right before the lion died, he let out the loudest, strangest sound.

It was a terrible cry. I have never heard a sound like this before.

At that moment, all the other male lions came in and killed the buffalo, the dead lion,

still on his horn. Then they let out a roar and walked away."

"Barnabas, they didn't eat the buffalo?"

"No."

"Barnabas?"

"yes"

"Are there lions out there?"

"Yes, somewhere."

I look out at the open plains. The grass is growing here. It stretches toward the sky, swaying to the rhythm of the wind. I can imagine the lions out there. Lazily napping under the Acacia trees, the grass, blending their manes into the background.

We are brought to Rachel's school, The Serare School, for lunch and are fed like kings and queens. Pastor Joshua sees my sashes from Pastor Simon and Margaret and says, "You are highly decorated. This is the highest decoration you can get as a Maasai warrior."

I caress my beads, wondering again how I got here.

The school girls dance and sing for us. They teach us some of their moves and laugh with us at how awkward we are. They wear clean uniforms and have freshly braided hair. These are the more fortunate children that have parents with "good jobs". The contrast between them and the children we just left behind, is painful.

Rachel informs us that we will "rest" and have tea at her small house. We arrive to a spread of food that would feed us for a week. This is tea.

Rachel's son and daughter are there. Her daughter works for one of the television stations

in Nairobi. She studied in Australia. Her accent, crossed between African and Australian, is unique and stunning. It matches her beauty.

Her son, Thuo Peter, is finishing what I believe to be his masters degree.

He pulls me outside to talk. I excuse myself and ask if I can first try my family again.

I have tried many times, with no success.

I reach my mom and start to sob uncontrollably. She starts to question if I am okay and I can barely mutter, "yes".

I try to explain my anguish, but thousands of miles from home, it just fills my parents with worry. My father picks up the line and I ask,

"Will you come with me and save them? Dad? Tell me you will come back with me. It is so dry."

The line goes dead.

I still have only reached my husband for a second and have been unable to speak to my children.

Thuo Peter misunderstands my tears. He thinks I dislike Africa and want to go home.

I am too tired to explain that it is the opposite.

He speaks to me for close to an hour about science, chemistry, physics...

I smile and nod, absorbing nothing that he says.

Then, as we are about to go he says,

"Americans come here and try to educate about HIV/AIDS. They do not understand.

As long as there is poverty here, there will be AIDS.

You see, you have a woman with children.

She has no job, no money, no husband.

She can look at HIV/AIDS and say, "I could die of that in 7 or 8 years, or, I could die next week because I have no food. My children will also die, from starvation."

So, she takes the risk, and sells herself to buy food for her and her children.

As long as we have poverty, we will have this deadly disease."

Thuo Peter and his mom, Rachel