tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-355739812024-03-11T06:23:07.402+03:00Tim in KenyaI was accepted as a missionary in Malava, Kenya with the Notre Dame Mission Volunteers in 2007. This blog is intended for the purpose of keeping track of my thoughts and experiences while on this journey.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-75999832883856089432007-12-08T09:44:00.001+03:002009-05-12T07:18:15.885+03:00Coming Home!...but one last adventure!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg06TGMIaT2TfJiutJhknunNJzxVT7YHhwZtOqcCA0llBM36SiPIQGnr40nSLT6tSSTmn6RDgllbv0PJ7J1xCtsNe18WnYIGhCQhSWLYTnA9mutG9p0VwOFbIhyphenhyphenbtdV7QN5ALYc/s1600-h/Egypt+picture.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg06TGMIaT2TfJiutJhknunNJzxVT7YHhwZtOqcCA0llBM36SiPIQGnr40nSLT6tSSTmn6RDgllbv0PJ7J1xCtsNe18WnYIGhCQhSWLYTnA9mutG9p0VwOFbIhyphenhyphenbtdV7QN5ALYc/s400/Egypt+picture.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334786742520889810" border="0" /></a><br />This year has truly been the experience of a lifetime!<br /><br />On Monday the staff, parents, and children came together one last time this year to celebrate World Disability Day before closing for the Christmas break. Thursday was my last day of work at the St. Julie Centre and I spent it taking inventory of over two-hundred store-bought and hand-made toys. On Friday I packed and cleaned the house and through a heavy rain storm rushed off to Nairobi where I will celebrate with the Sisters one last time. A new Sister of Notre Dame will be giving her final vows today.<br /><br />Lastly, I will prepare for my journey home. But just before I will have time for one last adventure. I have sold my laptop in Nairobi and will use the funds to travel for two weeks in Egypt. I have booked a tour to see the pyramids and various temples, but also I plan to climb Mt. Sinai to see the ancient St. Katherine’s Monastery to see what is claimed to be the actual burning bush seen by Moses in the Book of Exodus. As they say, one journey’s end is another’s beginning.<br /><br />I am leaving Nairobi for Cairo on December 9th and will return on December 22nd. Then I will fly out of Nairobi on December 23rd and should be in Detroit on Christmas Eve. I’m sure it will be hectic, but it will ve good to be home for Christmas.<br /><br />I will not have internet access for at least two weeks, but I still have more stories to tell and pictures to show. Last month I had the opportunity to visit the Shrine of the Uganda Martyrs in Uganda. So please look forward to continued updates on my blog even after I have returned. Please look forward to stories from Tim in Uganda and Tim in Egypt.<br /><br />Thank you again for all of your support with my mission and may God Bless you all!<br /><br />Much Love,<br /><br />TimUnknownnoreply@blogger.com148tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-85093019301603881862007-11-22T23:55:00.001+03:002007-12-06T00:22:30.184+03:00Happy Thankgiving!<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggR1u9wdDrUGJTV2PeSKzBWoiE3eqVi3I2IPOytgTDiXvXYjSZkK7hf9gA3lllfp2SG1Vq46M2-I16LN5OT21kfJXcoqnf99bTUm3qrUIkz_pICxLwoW6QHo6u7VAqLYUtNUm0/s1600-h/turkey2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggR1u9wdDrUGJTV2PeSKzBWoiE3eqVi3I2IPOytgTDiXvXYjSZkK7hf9gA3lllfp2SG1Vq46M2-I16LN5OT21kfJXcoqnf99bTUm3qrUIkz_pICxLwoW6QHo6u7VAqLYUtNUm0/s400/turkey2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140595909006402674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Turkey Dinner?</span><br /></div><br />Unfortunately Kenya does not celebrate Thanksgiving Day, like in the States, and so I had to work, as if it were any other Thursday. As I came into the St. Julie Centre I wished all of the Kenyan staff members a, “Happy Thanksgiving!” To which they replied, “What?!?” When I greeted some of the American Sisters of Notre Dame in the same way, they replied, “Oh yeah!, Is that today?” Many of them have been in Kenya for so many years that they don’t even think about it anymore. And so it seemed that I would have to celebrate on my own..<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4B5Org21FwwyU4k8AdMwSiiYbFqFvNU6yFK40Aqa7fKOq8JFnmR5V-fWLEMwOVFIkfmsrOpbFLq9jBfod3Up2Fck07gM-DGz_CrP8DPyxRrC1NexThXjHC4zJ-wTX2R73gJXi/s1600-h/cows.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4B5Org21FwwyU4k8AdMwSiiYbFqFvNU6yFK40Aqa7fKOq8JFnmR5V-fWLEMwOVFIkfmsrOpbFLq9jBfod3Up2Fck07gM-DGz_CrP8DPyxRrC1NexThXjHC4zJ-wTX2R73gJXi/s400/cows.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140598035015214258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Roast Beef?</span><br /></div><br />That evening, I gave thanks and ate my fill of all the sukuma wiki (kale) and rice I had in my kitchen, but ironically St. Teresa Parish grounds are always full of animals that would be perfect for any Thanksgiving feast. Everyday, my backyard is literally filled with cows, goats, sheep, pigs, ducks, chickens, and of course, two very fat turkeys. And so as I sat and ate my greens and rice I couldn’t help but think of what I could be eating had I been better prepared.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JJPgNFwPMPGnSN-omljJubL2x1WGNO1cvk_-C-hkL6u-mKap5ob4YS7KEa7ognbeLQZJD0Pf60wCRWVLP2eYkZE5zOqR-Nvn5DhE4oLodGRkm1JDp0rjhMcQSvaY2qIDS7FF/s1600-h/pig.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JJPgNFwPMPGnSN-omljJubL2x1WGNO1cvk_-C-hkL6u-mKap5ob4YS7KEa7ognbeLQZJD0Pf60wCRWVLP2eYkZE5zOqR-Nvn5DhE4oLodGRkm1JDp0rjhMcQSvaY2qIDS7FF/s400/pig.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140598352842794178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Pork Chop?</span><br /></div><br />One story of thanksgiving that came to mind was that of Marcelline, one of my volunteers at the Centre. As the year is quickly coming to an end it has been my job, as Volunteer Supervisor, to evaluate each of the volunteers on their performance and then allow them to give us any feedback regarding the programme. As I worked my way through the volunteers, evaluating one after another, some of them seemed to lose sight of what it meant to be a volunteer. One volunteer, after I had given her a good evaluation asked, “Now why can’t you pay me?” But it was when I came to evaluate Marcelline, truly one of my best volunteers, that I was pleasantly surprised. I told her that she comes to work on time and always does her job well. I told her that she really seems to enjoy helping the disabled children because she always works with a smile. I thanked her for her year of volunteer service and asked if she had anything to say. And all she said were these two words, “I’m grateful.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyXleMdqWFzJ5zjQehyphenhyphen60HrxOQngoQw_jCkuDIUbokzMPpiXe-sQ-OJi3ydkikEHJWoH6nW56DUR0kvgCDtDk3IuqvRTfBTPwUI0DCvQQUgnN4fzJ7UavoVD4KQQDLjF022xX/s1600-h/sheep+family.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyXleMdqWFzJ5zjQehyphenhyphen60HrxOQngoQw_jCkuDIUbokzMPpiXe-sQ-OJi3ydkikEHJWoH6nW56DUR0kvgCDtDk3IuqvRTfBTPwUI0DCvQQUgnN4fzJ7UavoVD4KQQDLjF022xX/s400/sheep+family.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140600362887488722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mutton?</span><br /></div><br />And so on Thanksgiving I thought about Marcelline and the words that she said to me. I want to thank my family, friends, and all of those that have supported me back home. I want to thank all of those that are here with me in Kenya, the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur, my fellow volunteers, all of those at the St. Julie Centre for Disabled Children, and St. Teresa Parish.<br /><br />“I’m truly grateful.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIDlP1En6TcteeqNAZ36-QwcI3DIKYvv989p0PExMTwKfhJ7Fw_FhRSgu5qDf4dHZfJv8MJO2eCB-7tb9C9-L_Y39ekzH3znwJ78VPK6W9ZCcM5Tqs2SXpLzrC-5d52GhVy7pi/s1600-h/goat2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIDlP1En6TcteeqNAZ36-QwcI3DIKYvv989p0PExMTwKfhJ7Fw_FhRSgu5qDf4dHZfJv8MJO2eCB-7tb9C9-L_Y39ekzH3znwJ78VPK6W9ZCcM5Tqs2SXpLzrC-5d52GhVy7pi/s400/goat2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140597412244956322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Don't even think about it!<br /><br /></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com290tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-34190557026117683472007-11-16T22:29:00.000+03:002007-12-05T23:11:19.935+03:00Malava Kids<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwb4Wo2788mTPX06KNWPt9UYdC3cpC93ss9LlzXl7uIKWGXiEZNKRRuhn5kbsU2aG1mIiofnkeK6shqu7kisExOL8CpV84BkewU7zZShcQFNaiHjg0sA-W_SS1rr0EADfsXQMm/s1600-h/group+of+children.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwb4Wo2788mTPX06KNWPt9UYdC3cpC93ss9LlzXl7uIKWGXiEZNKRRuhn5kbsU2aG1mIiofnkeK6shqu7kisExOL8CpV84BkewU7zZShcQFNaiHjg0sA-W_SS1rr0EADfsXQMm/s400/group+of+children.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140579261713163330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Kids gather on the road for a "snap"</span><br /></div><br />My house at St. Teresa Parish is constantly surrounded by kids. They use the footpath from the church to the hall and as they pass my house they stand at my gate and call me. “How are you Timoth!” That’s what they call me, Timoth. They don’t pronounce the “y.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_8DJrrQKLGbulngJTgP3YpnGiklAoKJo4rj_Z49pY7zZZdKt2v8EsdKqT5Db834LZKAo2N1aohhdARNsgWk8derjDN153qLzYm3dCuf5SfZsaGEkk7BKk7d3KXyIzlsdwyKG/s1600-h/gate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_8DJrrQKLGbulngJTgP3YpnGiklAoKJo4rj_Z49pY7zZZdKt2v8EsdKqT5Db834LZKAo2N1aohhdARNsgWk8derjDN153qLzYm3dCuf5SfZsaGEkk7BKk7d3KXyIzlsdwyKG/s400/gate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140582358384583778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Kids at my gate</span><br /></div><br />When I first came to Malava many of the children were very shy and would smile and hide their faces while others were afraid of me. Now that they have seen me around for many months they greet me on the road and come to the gate at my house all the time. When they greet me I respond, “I’m fine.” Then the small ones repeat over and over again, “How are you?”, “How are you?”, “How are you?” The older ones say, “Give me twenty bob! (shillings)” or “Mbekho Iswiti!” (Give me sweets) in their tribal language.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxMopn6lhM9wnPsUNN6_JcrQGymjc2AFMy0TDdMKGqRkRXzRshkndWMQzILOnIpF5sKiRGjtk1p0npZvZBMPHtwYZJVZAHihpZuaRT4Mk20V3K4Q0hpk69eNbR-uDWwkUwOkE/s1600-h/sheep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxMopn6lhM9wnPsUNN6_JcrQGymjc2AFMy0TDdMKGqRkRXzRshkndWMQzILOnIpF5sKiRGjtk1p0npZvZBMPHtwYZJVZAHihpZuaRT4Mk20V3K4Q0hpk69eNbR-uDWwkUwOkE/s400/sheep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140578862281204786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Stephen shows off his new lamb</span><br /></div><br />Many months ago I was very courteous with these children and would answer, “I’m fine” over and over or would say, “I’m sorry I don’t have any money or sweets.” But now since I have seen them around for many months, I simply say, “I’m fine” only once and “No!”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-iAszOjRq1sIs-Fpp_-DflGt9wKwyY-RpAll39PkhgAbkpA9TEUPMmKepbaikDItBcI9sHs-hLPiaeB1GPXDCAwu49ctG7ZRrDksnF00xVub_qOSJwAwG9P21GNDgeO48o5Z/s1600-h/firewood.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-iAszOjRq1sIs-Fpp_-DflGt9wKwyY-RpAll39PkhgAbkpA9TEUPMmKepbaikDItBcI9sHs-hLPiaeB1GPXDCAwu49ctG7ZRrDksnF00xVub_qOSJwAwG9P21GNDgeO48o5Z/s400/firewood.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140578419899573282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Gathering firewood or cooking</span><br /></div><br />They come on the weekends and watch me through my gate while I am doing my laundry or sweeping the courtyard. They always want to help me, but I never encourage them because I think it’s important that I do my own work, but also because they will expect payment and then when the word gets out more and more children will come for money and sweets.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpciaxoV3ElxzfP0ZT8FmjJgRRxuz7gtBdhlaFpvl4EhEA8FO5DV1VGsUl48yisS_d28QKEfrmIBfoFaVHvjlCJwiTcb3NZ3mZURpTjmzpDjqQoKQBu8aTtRQUpaqKUbcljk4/s1600-h/Eunice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpciaxoV3ElxzfP0ZT8FmjJgRRxuz7gtBdhlaFpvl4EhEA8FO5DV1VGsUl48yisS_d28QKEfrmIBfoFaVHvjlCJwiTcb3NZ3mZURpTjmzpDjqQoKQBu8aTtRQUpaqKUbcljk4/s400/Eunice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140576233761219602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Eunice climbs the trees by my house</span><br /></div><br />Malava kids are cute and fun to be around, but they certainly don’t allow me much privacy. When I am reading on my bed they come to my bedroom window. When I am preparing food in the kitchen they come to the kitchen window. Some days when I just want to listen to music on my iPod out in my courtyard they will poke their heads through the wide bars on my gate. Many times they want something from me other times they just come to stare.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJictj7wsNpNQhyjAz__PiSjYaM9tDvnf-vu0qDvD_YpSMfdGj2xtOz91UM51sqDJKRPwEMW51SfPMi6N9Ii2WxUNmOyxdW2NppgCSLgLLu0PRa7zVlzMjT-DNiZHuoKYxkNe/s1600-h/rope+swing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJictj7wsNpNQhyjAz__PiSjYaM9tDvnf-vu0qDvD_YpSMfdGj2xtOz91UM51sqDJKRPwEMW51SfPMi6N9Ii2WxUNmOyxdW2NppgCSLgLLu0PRa7zVlzMjT-DNiZHuoKYxkNe/s400/rope+swing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140575903048737794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Rope swing</span><br /></div><br />When I really just want to be alone many times I must go in the house with the door close and the curtains drawn. This is when the smallest of the children will climb through the bars of my gate and will run and play with my camp shower lying on the patio just outside. They will call my name for me to let them in the house, but I know better and will ignore them for ten minutes until they go.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4Accjz6CiWyiVrp-EXSmfDMS1jsB5ZwfL0NFzGM5H0qafzFrwhZkZu4e6NDkdqKCiYaKc6-X5ZzF-0X3_ZKR6Rv_8O3HCwLilrwaYWQhK7nQilPXB_CXsnwaFr5ddD3fsXL4/s1600-h/soccer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4Accjz6CiWyiVrp-EXSmfDMS1jsB5ZwfL0NFzGM5H0qafzFrwhZkZu4e6NDkdqKCiYaKc6-X5ZzF-0X3_ZKR6Rv_8O3HCwLilrwaYWQhK7nQilPXB_CXsnwaFr5ddD3fsXL4/s400/soccer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140574751997502450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Malcolm's homemade soccerball</span><br /></div><br />When I’ve told them “no” enough times we get alone very well. A group of nearly twenty children, girls and boys, come to the parish hall on Saturdays to learn how to be liturgical dancers for the Sunday mass. They have asked me to join their group many times, but having been born with two left feet, I unfortunately declined. They dance and sing for me and even teach me songs in Swahili.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-C9HQhT81-z0DD64xyA1ktKA7hrDcvd7FJmseTdxLqJgeV1wEu8wOS6hmIFzqUCBTt5zPsab6x6RsMY9DiT6ZZQrO_Ri42QRCa9m3r3cE-fmhoBhE001EZ_z23e3zDCv9Jwe/s1600-h/toy+truck.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-C9HQhT81-z0DD64xyA1ktKA7hrDcvd7FJmseTdxLqJgeV1wEu8wOS6hmIFzqUCBTt5zPsab6x6RsMY9DiT6ZZQrO_Ri42QRCa9m3r3cE-fmhoBhE001EZ_z23e3zDCv9Jwe/s400/toy+truck.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140574494299464674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The latest model made out of bicycle spokes</span><br /></div><br />They are truly amazed by the color of my skin and the hair on my arms. I keep the hair on my head pretty short so it tends to look really straight and so they are always wondering if I use chemicals to get it that way.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4YuTFyQuM-K2AvXZgMrEylA91iWZTbGioMN7u3IPmNv2jnI76E8PvO4DQtHmU52lvWSEGY8IKaElKFtTJlRQZjDl7f70wiODDddk0RKOtiKBQGsthIhMLBMPYDZ2823QCz74I/s1600-h/tree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4YuTFyQuM-K2AvXZgMrEylA91iWZTbGioMN7u3IPmNv2jnI76E8PvO4DQtHmU52lvWSEGY8IKaElKFtTJlRQZjDl7f70wiODDddk0RKOtiKBQGsthIhMLBMPYDZ2823QCz74I/s400/tree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140574167881950162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Just hangin' around</span><br /></div><br />When I walk to the Sister’s house to work in the afternoons I am greeted by children herding cattle, gathering firewood, and carrying milk and fruit to the market. But perhaps the most amazing thing about these kids, besides the fact that they always smiling and cheerful despite how little they have, is their talent for making their own games and toys. While kids in the States might occupy themselves with television and videogames, Malava kids occupy themselves with what is available. They can make a soccer ball out of plastic bags or a toy truck out of bicycle spokes, an inner-tube, and lids from plastic bottles. Some can make a jump rope from a vine, or a swing from a tree branch, while others will make up their own games with marbles and bottles caps. These games and toys are not fancy or high-tech, but are in many ways more impressive, but even more so are the kids that make them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-37081578890187785592007-11-05T22:22:00.000+03:002007-11-25T23:14:22.679+03:00St. Julie Centre - Week 40<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVweYZy0izKc4PSoORcMRYGCiEH8Aww6QBQ9l10R0YIQ_aztQzuSD5pCK-oH77bkAxzkbZJhNOAHqOgxnmWCAF31VGtEVJ7GN3p507Qf0Cmzfi4vDIMPLmQ1pOxgECcqirZ_y/s1600-h/cast+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVweYZy0izKc4PSoORcMRYGCiEH8Aww6QBQ9l10R0YIQ_aztQzuSD5pCK-oH77bkAxzkbZJhNOAHqOgxnmWCAF31VGtEVJ7GN3p507Qf0Cmzfi4vDIMPLmQ1pOxgECcqirZ_y/s400/cast+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136861486946904050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A mother holds her son as he gets two plaster casts on both legs</span><br /></div><br />At the St. Julie Centre, a few of our staff members have returned from their scheduled leaves and now it seems that we have a full staff again. Angela has returned from her maternity leave and the staff, last Friday, went to visit her in her home to see her new baby boy for the first time. Novice Joy, who had worked at the Centre as a volunteer earlier in the year, took her vows as a Sister of Notre Dame in August. She has returned to the Centre, now as Sister Joy, and also as a new staff member. Neto, a student volunteer has been able to continue his classes locally, instead of in Nairobi, and has been able to stay on as part of the staff. During the months when it seemed like the staff was dwindling away there were a few days when the Centre was being run by only two or three people and everybody had to be strong and fill in for those on leave to keep it going, but now the staff members are all in their respective roles and things are once again running smoothly.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRsLqIWe_PfoBqjImt7d_BUEMnHqmoIVknJa0W24pwAoyFcdotpcaNYhes_frkHM0MFC4HgvkjvAkI8HQkebvsocDAojOJSaoEXPnk-9467Lr53kpwNLVX2DL8XoQwG99Jbs-/s1600-h/cast+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRsLqIWe_PfoBqjImt7d_BUEMnHqmoIVknJa0W24pwAoyFcdotpcaNYhes_frkHM0MFC4HgvkjvAkI8HQkebvsocDAojOJSaoEXPnk-9467Lr53kpwNLVX2DL8XoQwG99Jbs-/s400/cast+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136865940827990114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">David prepares a cast for the left leg</span><br /></div><br />The St. Julie Centre is open for therapy Monday through Thursday and each client typically comes once a week. While the day on which any client comes is based simply on their availability, not on the disability of the child, Tuesday is somewhat of an exception. Tuesday is the day on which the children with clubfoot come for plaster and many times it is the busiest day of the week.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpvzWk9oEOxXdtP8qqMtsOxkeYdWXVG3InMnim1om9xg31htOM0D8djQBEVFEA0vjMUpHvSnFJ1nwElBWXkdROtoiz0ZXMoarss5IB4aPKnSS7BuGaGGfqD3ejaCHdppB9pRMH/s1600-h/clubfoot+Javan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpvzWk9oEOxXdtP8qqMtsOxkeYdWXVG3InMnim1om9xg31htOM0D8djQBEVFEA0vjMUpHvSnFJ1nwElBWXkdROtoiz0ZXMoarss5IB4aPKnSS7BuGaGGfqD3ejaCHdppB9pRMH/s400/clubfoot+Javan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136863247883495458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mama Javan shows her son's left clubfoot</span><br /></div><br />Clubfoot is a disability that a child is born with in which one or both feet are unnaturally curved down and inward. A clubfoot generally looks like it has an extremely high arch. A child that suffers from clubfoot typically has trouble placing his or her foot flat on the ground when they are walking.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tRxCOHHePq_h4gExG6nX0oOz9f8H-ftREBRa3u_oIV_JiSPdixWEsRZlgmau09z5b9_eTIAltHazcBDIX5hrWS3YHMhYJzI5PUeO31eVeSOEF8U-4t8f3qBndx1NwK7U-JnN/s1600-h/cast+5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tRxCOHHePq_h4gExG6nX0oOz9f8H-ftREBRa3u_oIV_JiSPdixWEsRZlgmau09z5b9_eTIAltHazcBDIX5hrWS3YHMhYJzI5PUeO31eVeSOEF8U-4t8f3qBndx1NwK7U-JnN/s400/cast+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136866258655570034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A mother and father remove an old plaster cast</span><br /></div><br />The good news about clubfoot is that if it is diagnosed early it can be treated without surgery. This is done so by putting a plaster cast on the foot while it is still growing. The cast will slowly straighten the foot before the bones have fully developed. In many cases, a child with clubfoot can make a complete recovery from their disability.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc8xQnzH44JDjdGH-7jqLhiE752HgOKa0JIH1UjT_Qfd8GA2V2Tuzao3SRHxgS5G1dOEOk3yzqQwBV-qeQ9Qq6DtrsB5OBHrJ8d-irrWTLzQcaACzKgFvGtPeOA5M1LFclIO0k/s1600-h/cast+6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc8xQnzH44JDjdGH-7jqLhiE752HgOKa0JIH1UjT_Qfd8GA2V2Tuzao3SRHxgS5G1dOEOk3yzqQwBV-qeQ9Qq6DtrsB5OBHrJ8d-irrWTLzQcaACzKgFvGtPeOA5M1LFclIO0k/s400/cast+6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136866679562365058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A mother plays with her child after the casts have been set</span><br /></div><br />On Tuesdays, there is fear in the air for the children that I see for play therapy. Each child that I engaged in a play activity is continually distracted by the screaming, shouts, and crying coming from the occupational therapy room. This is where the therapists are twisting the feet of the children with clubfoot in order to set the plaster casts that hold them straight. Once the cast is set it is usually not painful, but before the plaster hardens, the foot must be held in an uncomfortable position. One by one the children go in and come out with tears in their eyes. While there are still some cases that are not coming for plaster on this day, all of the children are struck with fear when the occupational therapist opens the door and calls, “next.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX8uivfA9v26NE_kiy0T7xERQF2GpSBk_GZzFwOGSn4XoVN-xqWKM7X-3Q4CWf-HJx3Fey9gHW7pBmLQcBB2h4nYbKQK1L0oYdgdAxZrs9QPKFJuz1KXEIhVQ3WAii8MxMkE-y/s1600-h/meeting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX8uivfA9v26NE_kiy0T7xERQF2GpSBk_GZzFwOGSn4XoVN-xqWKM7X-3Q4CWf-HJx3Fey9gHW7pBmLQcBB2h4nYbKQK1L0oYdgdAxZrs9QPKFJuz1KXEIhVQ3WAii8MxMkE-y/s400/meeting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136868234340526242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The last volunteer meeting of the year</span><br /></div><br />In October, I had my last volunteer meeting of the year. We began on a somber note by praying for the eight children that have died this year. Two children had died since our last meeting, Emmanuel who suffered from hydrocephalus andspina bifida and Bernard who suffered from cerebral palsy. As usual I spoke to the play therapy volunteers about keeping up with their duties and gave them some advice on how some things could be done more effectively. Then we shared our stories about some of the children from the past couple of months at the Centre. But it was when I told them the news that in December I would be leaving that I really knew how they felt about me. I thanked them for their service and told them that I enjoyed my time working with them, but I also said that I would soon have to go and that there would be other volunteers coming in January. They very graciously told me that they really enjoyed me as their supervisor and really wished that I could stay longer. It was when they told me this that I remembered that they said the same thing to Cindy, the volunteer supervisor last year, before she left.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNi-1wsXV5bvMiwe2JRMUJPReRPu9PSezSTSF75IkmMSOWIqeY7KIB4lrEKJVtX8PTi4HHZ28rzkD3EnnAkZtENqBwHeUgkKDNJL0pAe25V4dA0Ti9MIWS6aQn4tawB7HeEjhA/s1600-h/emmanuel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNi-1wsXV5bvMiwe2JRMUJPReRPu9PSezSTSF75IkmMSOWIqeY7KIB4lrEKJVtX8PTi4HHZ28rzkD3EnnAkZtENqBwHeUgkKDNJL0pAe25V4dA0Ti9MIWS6aQn4tawB7HeEjhA/s320/emmanuel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136865476971522130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Emmanuel suffered from hydrocephalus and spina bifida</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4PAW_ZLs07LY7iomLbqorKNtaCkqZpmK-CPFT1FfC42HNTMe6Jm8UxSsux-9_wG4uzwIvMTi3YE69eK2M-6_M26sXO1wkn_MWfyRUOehQPqWwXo4aZBOkc3BihwPpLE7Z96Pn/s1600-h/bernard+uhuru.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4PAW_ZLs07LY7iomLbqorKNtaCkqZpmK-CPFT1FfC42HNTMe6Jm8UxSsux-9_wG4uzwIvMTi3YE69eK2M-6_M26sXO1wkn_MWfyRUOehQPqWwXo4aZBOkc3BihwPpLE7Z96Pn/s320/bernard+uhuru.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136864519193815106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Bernard suffered from cerebral palsy</span><br /></div><br />When I began the position as play therapy supervisor back in January and I kept hearing how much they liked Cindy as their supervisor the year before and I wasn’t sure that I would ever be able to fill her shoes. I was told that when they heard that a man was coming to take her place, the volunteers were all very concerned because they thought that Cindy, as a woman, knew them so well. But what I’ve come to see in these last few months, is that the staff and I have also worked very well together and that they will also be sad to see me go. We have developed our own relationship with each other and in many ways it will be tough for me to leave. I struggled in the beginning to carry on what she started, but in the end, I now realize that I didn’t need to be like Cindy, I just needed to be myself.<br /><br />We are quickly coming to December and there is still so much to do before then. On December 3rd the Centre will be celebrating World Disability Day. It will be an opportunity to create some awareness of disabilities in this community and help to remove the shame for which sometimes they are hidden away or seen as outcasts. It will also be a last farewell for me to those parents, children, and staff members with which I have spent this blessed year.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-31507947707898150062007-11-02T00:21:00.000+03:002007-11-25T01:08:52.471+03:00Kenyan Funeral (Feast of All Souls')<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7Se1fD2qVLYmwrLVGnH6PwQ1-kwsmajV9J1gxIzsJGwJbgfE7KSaqtDp6UlwGakq-y2K2tvsJFNYdaW2lzVZcxpe3fm5LOyfTbNrWgOhHE0u1FDePwK81HibwJE-UhcgaD_4/s1600-h/lowering+casket.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7Se1fD2qVLYmwrLVGnH6PwQ1-kwsmajV9J1gxIzsJGwJbgfE7KSaqtDp6UlwGakq-y2K2tvsJFNYdaW2lzVZcxpe3fm5LOyfTbNrWgOhHE0u1FDePwK81HibwJE-UhcgaD_4/s400/lowering+casket.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136522880315221938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Burial at the homestead</span><br /></div><br />If there is one thing that I have learned this year in Kenya, it’s that life is fragile. The combined deaths of the children at the St. Julie Centre along with those of the families of the staff members this year are more than I have experienced over my entire lifetime back home in the States. To die may be more a part of life, here in Africa, than any other place on earth. And so it was on the Feast of All Souls that we remembered those that have died this year in our prayers that God may raise their souls with Him to Heaven.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLGF5SCT9nuR_oR8Y75FNoPhFWmpjS2f_gF77XO8gp39D8pTcowP5a2tbOd23vO7NcJpHl8RlV348GVVNIdkBrgAi6BpnB-PB6yqcZE_cr4ecl7iIDfbeeUyj-sx1Etu_YfOwb/s1600-h/prayer+at+house.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLGF5SCT9nuR_oR8Y75FNoPhFWmpjS2f_gF77XO8gp39D8pTcowP5a2tbOd23vO7NcJpHl8RlV348GVVNIdkBrgAi6BpnB-PB6yqcZE_cr4ecl7iIDfbeeUyj-sx1Etu_YfOwb/s400/prayer+at+house.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136521974077122466" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Prayers at David's home</span><br /></div><br />Last month, Rose, the wife of David, the head occupational therapist, passed away leaving behind her husband and their three-year-old daughter. Her death came as a shock to all as she was only thirty-two years old and it was not known that she was seriously ill at the time. She died at a nearby hospital due to a reaction to intense anti-malaria treatment. The funeral was held at David’s home in Malava and the burial at his parent’s home on Saturday, October 27th. Rose was a nurse by profession and so along with her family and many friends, many of her fellow nurses were in attendance. The St. Julie Centre staff members also came to offer their condolences.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmjQI0FNXo6Q25YAKit7edSpzRgsfg5XPq9daOisb2Q0mAj0FOc2X_EOoB5MjqL_9MG3Q5uyJCRCQ9S7ApkmxPCx-moCibAfGBxIIvHyRit82bAvPgXKz1g1KWFIfM24XQKrrr/s1600-h/crowd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmjQI0FNXo6Q25YAKit7edSpzRgsfg5XPq9daOisb2Q0mAj0FOc2X_EOoB5MjqL_9MG3Q5uyJCRCQ9S7ApkmxPCx-moCibAfGBxIIvHyRit82bAvPgXKz1g1KWFIfM24XQKrrr/s400/crowd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136523339876722626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Many attend the funeral at David's parent's home</span><br /></div><br />While it is only proper to provide for the visitors to one’s home, a funeral can be a very busy time for a Kenyan family. Something to eat must be offered to each of the many guests and so it is normal to slaughter many animals on the day of a funeral. While, in the States, a funeral can be a small private affair with only the closest of friends and family, in Kenya, hundreds can be in attendance. Sometimes it can take an entire village to bury somebody.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5vAmTpb5dx43rgyEjemo21IR4UUGr-f6U2UqXA8bljDUrAjVpdUz3ST2Sdo0PMnhwchc9HW8ufJhe5AShNrt9Favqcglxm5b_W6Fso_DNDLiOXZQdJnQ_9UVjKptesz90qFm/s1600-h/procession.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5vAmTpb5dx43rgyEjemo21IR4UUGr-f6U2UqXA8bljDUrAjVpdUz3ST2Sdo0PMnhwchc9HW8ufJhe5AShNrt9Favqcglxm5b_W6Fso_DNDLiOXZQdJnQ_9UVjKptesz90qFm/s400/procession.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136521527400523666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The burial procession</span><br /></div><br />At the funeral and burial services, some people, especially women, can be very emotional and can throw themselves upon the casket wailing loudly and crying out. A funeral can last several hours as traditional religious songs are sung and many friends and family, one by one, tell the story of how they came to hear of the death. Some may also tell stories of spiritual signs they have seen and experienced regarding the person who has died. Lastly, a history is told aloud and all rise and begin the burial procession.<br /><br />A Kenyan funeral is a beautiful service of song and prayer in celebration of a person's life such that if they were able to look down upon it from above there would be no doubt indeed, they were loved and will be greatly missed.<br /><br />After the casket is buried at the family homestead all prepare for their long journey home.<br />And life goes on…<br /><br />For Rose, the children at the St. Julie Centre, and all those who have died this year...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-12273215172767825142007-11-01T00:37:00.000+03:002007-11-22T20:23:45.777+03:00Feast of All SaintsWhile Halloween is not celebrated in Kenya, the Catholics do, of course, celebrate the Feast of All Saints. Before I left the States my friend JP gave me a copy of a book titled, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Saints Show Us Christ</span>, by Rawley Myers. It is a book that gives daily readings on the spiritual lives of the saints. While I am no saint, on this feast I remembered some of the saints that I have learned about, admired, and sought the intercession of this year.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">St. Julie Billiart represents my mission in Kenya working with disabled children and adults through therapy, treatment, and education. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp7tfFzxt2SxPL1GHieGq7ozoDmIWrvkYY48dhgfjC-8B5plLwwaamfZo1tW9if2kBdNfGaLCMmjO2lATX8iXXG0KgAaFKOO4ZX5swOTW13Tszg54Zk3YTPu2kpg3PGCdOmtcq/s1600-h/julie_billiart_portrait.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp7tfFzxt2SxPL1GHieGq7ozoDmIWrvkYY48dhgfjC-8B5plLwwaamfZo1tW9if2kBdNfGaLCMmjO2lATX8iXXG0KgAaFKOO4ZX5swOTW13Tszg54Zk3YTPu2kpg3PGCdOmtcq/s200/julie_billiart_portrait.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135416415135393570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">St. Julie Billiart</span> (1751 - 1816) is the foundress of the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur. She was born the fifth of seven children in Cuvilly, France. As a child she liked to play “school,” but when she was sixteen, to help support her family, she began teaching for real the stories of the bible. She carried this mission of education with her the rest of her life. A parish priest, recognizing that she was something special secretly allowed her to make her First Communion at the age of nine, instead of the usual age of thirteen. When a murder attempt was made on her father’s life it shocked her nervous system so badly that she became completely paralyzed and was confined to a wheelchair. During the French Revolution she offered her home as a hiding place for priests, but because of this she became hunted as well. She had to flee five times in three years to avoid involving her friends that allowed her a place to hide. In 1803, she began living a religious life and was miraculously cured from her illness and began walking again after twenty-two years. In 1805, she took her final vows to the congregation and was elected Mother of the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur. In 1815, she nursed the wounded of the Battle of Waterloo and fed the starving as her own health began to worsen. She died peacefully on April 8, 1816 at the age of 64.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Saint Philip Neri keeps my sense of humor alive when my mood becomes too serious.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNFHtPzcO5orEZ0iURlKyU7mirX7YsDWkjUDvBQrOCJXn13R5nqPe1efjOWJn_HDCVhNTfl7kXGjYe2NuCePKAWdCsuktxUXeO_jL8y3BKGrsjjWWrkqFKhAioYrE3wN-s1m7R/s1600-h/spn.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNFHtPzcO5orEZ0iURlKyU7mirX7YsDWkjUDvBQrOCJXn13R5nqPe1efjOWJn_HDCVhNTfl7kXGjYe2NuCePKAWdCsuktxUXeO_jL8y3BKGrsjjWWrkqFKhAioYrE3wN-s1m7R/s200/spn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135418463834793842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Saint Philip Neri</span>(1515-1595), a resident of Rome, was known for his love of humor. His many jokes and pranks were usually at his own expense, in a humbling manor. On one occasion he shaved off half of his beard and danced through the streets of Rome before attending a ceremony held his honor. St. Philip lived in the 16th century, in a troubling time for the Catholic church, but in he responded by forming an Order of priests called the Oratorians. The Oratorians were called so because they met in an oratory to pray. They were known for reaching out to the ordinary people of Rome. One time, while in deep prayer, his heart grew to the size of a fist. While he never complained of any pain, when he died 50 years later, an autopsy showed that two of his ribs were broken and fused together in an arch to accommodate his unusually large heart. He invited friends to his room where he lived, and when they arrived expecting to see a saint, he sat wearing a small hat and big shoes, reading a book of jokes. Saint Philip was loved by a succession of Popes, but out of humbleness he resisted their attempts to make him a Cardinal. When one Pope sent him a red Cardinal’s hat as a sign of respect he played with it and used it as a football.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />St. Ignatius Loyala keeps me strong when I feel weak and reminds me to be charitable.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihZuCP8ZBVA4o2MWUj5RpLNVsinXxjUqrbdPX8dgaCvJVvdyksC4Z6IpqIRKgeERFoDuDUx9gRylbVNqWxxIqDkRQ6K1R44QnxK0ZEMpRoKr9lrwCK7BtP5iOR2msxy_pz5t_Y/s1600-h/032IgnatiusLoyola.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihZuCP8ZBVA4o2MWUj5RpLNVsinXxjUqrbdPX8dgaCvJVvdyksC4Z6IpqIRKgeERFoDuDUx9gRylbVNqWxxIqDkRQ6K1R44QnxK0ZEMpRoKr9lrwCK7BtP5iOR2msxy_pz5t_Y/s200/032IgnatiusLoyola.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135417385798002514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Saint Ignatius Loyola</span> (1491-1556) was a Spanish soldier that founded the Jesuits. He was one of the defenders of Pamplona against the French. Not willing to surrender during the battle, his right leg was hit by a cannon ball, which completely shattered the bone, while his left leg was hit by falling masonry. He was sent to a hospital in great pain. As the hours in his sickbed went by slowly, he began to read of the lives of Christ and the saints. Saint Ignatius had tremendous courage and endured the pain of having the bones of his leg set without complaint. After the operation, when it was found that a piece of his bone still protruded, he insisted on having a doctor saw it away as he suffered the agony. When his legs healed he started on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He gave away his possessions and begged for food as he stopped in the town of Manresa, where he lived at a monastery with Dominican friars. He retreated to a cave at some nearby cliffs to pray and to meditate. It is during this time that he began to contemplate the religious life and the Society of Jesus, the Jesuits. He later wrote <span style="font-style: italic;">The Spiritual Exercises</span>, which is considered by many to be a masterpiece.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Prayer of St. Ignatius Loyola</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Take, O Lord, and receive my entire memory, my understanding, and my whole will. All that I am and all that I possess You have given me: I surrender it all to Your love and Your grace; with these I will be rich enough and will desire nothing more. Amen.</span><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-5463206804531246692007-10-27T00:00:00.000+03:002007-11-15T00:52:16.890+03:00Malava Village<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpXPJgIdowC9zTaZgOo_y_7CuB8Hgi2rW4iX2Qf8QUvCsohyedO-wc1OtLX0GKT_yB4fSAFSWYv-6HKLcljzmgNWT1VCfL34qoo1ThkJIZl7xAuUVhwjXdg0bXL5-JVdrmKAs9/s1600-h/promotion.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpXPJgIdowC9zTaZgOo_y_7CuB8Hgi2rW4iX2Qf8QUvCsohyedO-wc1OtLX0GKT_yB4fSAFSWYv-6HKLcljzmgNWT1VCfL34qoo1ThkJIZl7xAuUVhwjXdg0bXL5-JVdrmKAs9/s400/promotion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132810311523062370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Malava villagers gather around for a Tangawizi tea promotion</span><br /></div><br />Malava is such a small village in Kenya that it doesn’t appear on most maps, but for it’s size there is surprisingly a lot going on. When I wake up in the morning it is not to the startling sound of a buzzing alarm clock, but rather the friendly sounds of the countryside. My rooster crows from the courtyard, a cow moos from the field behind my house, and a tractor drives by in the distance. For a moment, as I come out of my dream, I could be in any small town in America, but then I hear the sounds of people. The people walk by my house on a narrow footpath to the church and I hear them talking back and forth to each other. Their voices are familiar, but the language they speak can’t be understood. They are speaking Kiluyha (KEE-LOO-YAH), the language of the local tribe, the Luyha (LOO-YAH) tribe. “Oh yeah,” I remind myself, as I open my eyes and yawn, “I’m in Kenya.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5OZ9yl7-T7HlpkQsAOzbSheL8PGP8D9sI-y5fIRHrePycPSD2NvLLYR770vPRZDrkmhG0bWxzsVkqN_JxP45u7l5mgYA8NOvqlwCeFMUzzyjBHickL1FlqPtVuYcYFg1tT4bO/s1600-h/kuku+basket.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5OZ9yl7-T7HlpkQsAOzbSheL8PGP8D9sI-y5fIRHrePycPSD2NvLLYR770vPRZDrkmhG0bWxzsVkqN_JxP45u7l5mgYA8NOvqlwCeFMUzzyjBHickL1FlqPtVuYcYFg1tT4bO/s400/kuku+basket.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132808584946209282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Men sell chickens from a basket on their bicycle</span><br /></div><br />On my way to the St. Julie Centre on Wednesday’s mornings, just before I cross the main tarmac road, I walk through numerous vendors selling chickens from baskets on the backs of their bicycles. The chicken’s legs are tied so they won’t run away and many of them cry out and flap their wings desperately as they are held upside down. Some are also lying in piles on the ground and I look them over briefly as I walk by. I try not to look too long or I will be hounded by the vendor to purchase one. I think to myself, I am probably the only person in all of Kenya that keeps chickens for a pets.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQhzpURmU4dM0-ogK7k8uw5nAMI3tylloGHUmH3gWfQXAR6aEyPdh-u5uVDIpXETfdSCwCSNx3l-hdAx8TR3OSeuzNw5GLJ85wsABFtcoUFfghPd76IZtkZsosYkw4quohFd7w/s1600-h/posho+mill+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQhzpURmU4dM0-ogK7k8uw5nAMI3tylloGHUmH3gWfQXAR6aEyPdh-u5uVDIpXETfdSCwCSNx3l-hdAx8TR3OSeuzNw5GLJ85wsABFtcoUFfghPd76IZtkZsosYkw4quohFd7w/s400/posho+mill+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132811922135798434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The Posho Mill is used to grind maize into flour</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26gWJk3Fp1QjNXcjdaS251GIrCtikbsTZXoXoman9rOIlP2E1l2XGGGYYzKkyY5mpkw_y2XkDqrHBwHr5uTzVBtSW1NiiLMeij7_baOTokTO_zo05zFjMHZpITriw-cmJSYdx/s1600-h/boy+%26+bicycle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26gWJk3Fp1QjNXcjdaS251GIrCtikbsTZXoXoman9rOIlP2E1l2XGGGYYzKkyY5mpkw_y2XkDqrHBwHr5uTzVBtSW1NiiLMeij7_baOTokTO_zo05zFjMHZpITriw-cmJSYdx/s400/boy+%26+bicycle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132806158289686962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">This boy heads for the market to sell greens</span><br /></div><br />As I cross the road, matatus are quickly stopping to let the passengers off while others are scrambling to get on. There is always a long line of boda bodas (bicycle taxis) on this road. They call out to me as I walk passed, offering to take me to work by bicycle for only 10 Ksh ($0.07). Close by there is a place where bicycle mechanics are hard at work. I wave to them and continue on my way. Some villagers are carrying small baskets or large heavy sacks of maize to the posho (POH-SHOW) mill. The posho mill is a place to bring dried maize to be ground by a machine into flour for making ugali. Ugali is the main food of many Kenyans and so the posho mill is a busy place that does a lot of business. For 4 Ksh ($0.03), one gorogoro (coffee can) of maize can be ground into flour. Other villagers walk barefoot along the rough dirt roads carrying baskets of fruit on their heads to the market to sell. Some also carry jugs of milk or bushels of greens.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_TQqlE3F-apLNEVy2aNBGzPKm1eu1LLUfFOt3eqX7kWHvyXff9eIXvSxPY0MIfHH5Zvuwd-sW0-uMIwwc0s5yNa-2OvyuX5V23BStit3CkwDAbXmC6hVoMAYtXsfx4a3LQThH/s1600-h/kiosk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_TQqlE3F-apLNEVy2aNBGzPKm1eu1LLUfFOt3eqX7kWHvyXff9eIXvSxPY0MIfHH5Zvuwd-sW0-uMIwwc0s5yNa-2OvyuX5V23BStit3CkwDAbXmC6hVoMAYtXsfx4a3LQThH/s400/kiosk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132808310068302322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Malava kiosk</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MhyphenhyphensigOD4pb1-_SEpa_1S7cCRaQPxlxUzA8BqEnBRzt9eRoQde66q73AuqDRq-A-nKnMXgcfjF-eLBB_tRYIzHpMilcfd_GdSNujx4a-vfB_1ok7LGA8zW3Os1fO-CDxxDkY/s1600-h/music.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MhyphenhyphensigOD4pb1-_SEpa_1S7cCRaQPxlxUzA8BqEnBRzt9eRoQde66q73AuqDRq-A-nKnMXgcfjF-eLBB_tRYIzHpMilcfd_GdSNujx4a-vfB_1ok7LGA8zW3Os1fO-CDxxDkY/s400/music.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132809547018883634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Barber shop and music store</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ucWpCcWVyuuhRCT1BgXKQ54N6i2XVmOexklSLewRWvDU_kQh9OvITSyflrqB3XnJpmYwTwfEmyc3in48bRMsRcLZWN7g0MQYeUvqGcSA2fPw-Z3LM2zb7m3V_YRPUmvyBJNC/s1600-h/babadogo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ucWpCcWVyuuhRCT1BgXKQ54N6i2XVmOexklSLewRWvDU_kQh9OvITSyflrqB3XnJpmYwTwfEmyc3in48bRMsRcLZWN7g0MQYeUvqGcSA2fPw-Z3LM2zb7m3V_YRPUmvyBJNC/s400/babadogo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132805501159690642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Babadogo Discount Shop</span><br /></div><br />To my right I pass a number of kiosks (wood stands selling fruit and other items) and Malava’s only music store, which most of the time functions as a kinyozi (barbershop). To my left I pass the Babadogo Discount Shop which sells soda, bread, milk, eggs, sugar, margarine, matches, batteries, padlocks, brooms, and more. Both advertise that mobile charging and prepaid phone cards are available. While most villagers do not have electricity in their homes, many own mobile phones and come to the shops to buy airtime and pay to have their phones charged.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZmRL2UZ2zAnOnWor2hkKo07eS1ZoVfSCbGxmVopgiZIYkufks5pQdS3xSseEplfiRYDHii0B-5KS6jKlYVU56SLm4tqX1pnCB8GpTn0lOX8Pd4SdCuuzTH3HAuopGk4pdStD/s1600-h/man.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZmRL2UZ2zAnOnWor2hkKo07eS1ZoVfSCbGxmVopgiZIYkufks5pQdS3xSseEplfiRYDHii0B-5KS6jKlYVU56SLm4tqX1pnCB8GpTn0lOX8Pd4SdCuuzTH3HAuopGk4pdStD/s400/man.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132809267846009378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A poor man in Malava</span><br /></div><br />On my way to work, many days I see at least one mentally ill man or woman that looks so much poorer than all of the rest of the villagers. In general, the people of Malava are poor, but because they all live at about the same standard, only the incredibly poor stand out. These people appear to be homeless and wear dirty, tattered clothes with many odds and ends stuck into the pockets. One woman walks through the marketplace topless and dances to the music on a radio while one man talks nonsense to anyone who passes by. They have become a nuisance to some, but never to me. They both always greet me kindly when I see them on the road.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBNlcG3HcrHuKZb8E-msB0lV7urYIwYY3NY5lZyJnFeTOBsVh3yf9ior37t2vwU4rlEx6pT7bOEEZ-F5uihcKXVAu8D1yOZP0JdwRFKR4rGtuqHK6OtcJSQviQdTctN0ZltIz/s1600-h/fried+tilapia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBNlcG3HcrHuKZb8E-msB0lV7urYIwYY3NY5lZyJnFeTOBsVh3yf9ior37t2vwU4rlEx6pT7bOEEZ-F5uihcKXVAu8D1yOZP0JdwRFKR4rGtuqHK6OtcJSQviQdTctN0ZltIz/s400/fried+tilapia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132807159017066962" border="0" /></a>Fried tilapia<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiz4Z5gvowslgem7tXW12g-Li22er26htiVSpgWUY1TQiOJzOWowU4H48i2lL2QK82VGqY62x0rixtrAGYMuvHdkEhtpzmllOPnZNKvOQZAorZZCrI5jawUGUynI7e_F8oiAE/s1600-h/roasted+maize.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiz4Z5gvowslgem7tXW12g-Li22er26htiVSpgWUY1TQiOJzOWowU4H48i2lL2QK82VGqY62x0rixtrAGYMuvHdkEhtpzmllOPnZNKvOQZAorZZCrI5jawUGUynI7e_F8oiAE/s400/roasted+maize.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132810736724824690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">This man sells roasted maize by the roadside</span><br /></div><br />On the weekends there is always something happening. On Fridays the main attraction is the new Malava market. The original market along the tarmac was moved to a nearby location just up the road from the St. Julie Centre. This new location has a brick and concrete enclosure that provides shelter from the traffic, sun, and rain. It also offers clean latrines and showers for only 10 Ksh ($0.07). But most villagers save their money by showering from a bucket at home and use the bushes and trees for a “short call” (nature’s call #1). Since most people in Malava do not own televisions, sometimes on market day a large food company will send a promotional team to entertain the crowd in order to advertise it’s products. The Tangawizi tea company team comes in a bus that converts into a stage. They set up a sound system and play music and dance for the crowd. On the roadside, people are selling fried tilapia and roasted maize. They always ask me if I would like to buy either of them, but unfortunately I do not care for fish and the roasted maize is too hard for me to eat.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGz0QHxdEmjw3NfYPeQci6CkT8vV1b1YLBJVsRtsg5LpPhGeqmLtKikLOBgp7vBI4JNLZx5GBfN3k4U7Kbjq7MQFoLiRpL87XUh59wvks7LSU-fIOxhWkH8b7K14pZPKTZpyuL/s1600-h/crusade.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGz0QHxdEmjw3NfYPeQci6CkT8vV1b1YLBJVsRtsg5LpPhGeqmLtKikLOBgp7vBI4JNLZx5GBfN3k4U7Kbjq7MQFoLiRpL87XUh59wvks7LSU-fIOxhWkH8b7K14pZPKTZpyuL/s400/crusade.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132806750995173826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Villagers dance at the crusade</span><br /></div><br />On Saturdays and Sundays nearly all of the many churches in Malava are active. While St. Teresa is the only Catholic parish, there are many Protestant churches. The more prominent ones are the African Church of the Holy Spirit, the Friends Church, and the Salvation Army Church. One Pentecostal church sets up a stage for a crusade. They sing gospel songs and dance while they invite the villagers to join in. Between performances a charismatic preacher shouts into a microphone giving them the hard gospel message. The preacher’s voice can be heard clearly from my house, but because I cannot understand what he is saying his forceful tone only makes me laugh. To me his strong voice sounds like he is challenging someone to a wrestling match.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-1n-83bR1IzYjnq4xleOTt6CcjVuiVVzBG8ZQWv_N4A4-Gwd1Qve89qNhjb4X1jXFxS2ARq__eUXP4rT9KxB4Y7axHYzlPWToPg6ixFFXF6ebMzDPKOGQMu9LmFbLihu3U7r/s1600-h/new+honey+drops.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-1n-83bR1IzYjnq4xleOTt6CcjVuiVVzBG8ZQWv_N4A4-Gwd1Qve89qNhjb4X1jXFxS2ARq__eUXP4rT9KxB4Y7axHYzlPWToPg6ixFFXF6ebMzDPKOGQMu9LmFbLihu3U7r/s400/new+honey+drops.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132809839076659778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The New Honey Drops Hotel</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsjl71T7ndNkU493JDrKTNH1WzVrCIzbDXwIjgMvqhj3VhV-kaPa5uJ0B8jHFDMDl3k7gJ5A7H57MV5tMD_JyD1lJGypj5TE3vx-0NJaJjy58t-fhyJc_8M1uvhmry4XCOBiJ/s1600-h/supermarket.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsjl71T7ndNkU493JDrKTNH1WzVrCIzbDXwIjgMvqhj3VhV-kaPa5uJ0B8jHFDMDl3k7gJ5A7H57MV5tMD_JyD1lJGypj5TE3vx-0NJaJjy58t-fhyJc_8M1uvhmry4XCOBiJ/s400/supermarket.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132811114681946754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Malava Supermarket</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBNCEmS0E8904H2KCaZ9dq7sciwb_bxANCH7Gg8AAZc-Bfn9NqHrPbQ13YGQAQWIvx-HhijpMO2cHAOtfcQKI3kxWEwT6poGKLWh_NbOUI9W1SVOOd2t-xJtTJq3i-1iIINvs/s1600-h/malava+forest.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBNCEmS0E8904H2KCaZ9dq7sciwb_bxANCH7Gg8AAZc-Bfn9NqHrPbQ13YGQAQWIvx-HhijpMO2cHAOtfcQKI3kxWEwT6poGKLWh_NbOUI9W1SVOOd2t-xJtTJq3i-1iIINvs/s400/malava+forest.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132808992968102418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The trees in Malava forest are home to monkeys and baboons</span><br /></div><br />On the weekends I go early to the New Honey Drops Hotel for mandazi and stop off at the Malava Supermarket for milk to make chai tea. I usually spend the morning in the house, but in the afternoons I may take a walk up passed the landmark Total station to the Malava forest. The Malava forest has many interesting species of trees that are inhabited by monkeys and baboons. The monkeys usually remain in trees, but the baboons will walk along the roadside with the people. Sometimes they will chase a woman carrying a basket of fruit on her head. They are normally harmless animals, but I am told when one of them feels threatened they will all come together and can viciously attack.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinCCafoKl9ksX66ORwue-a5qEoAnFnuW-BysFTMjnWFt_ZNhH1exIs7L9nLDRVemAtuz2-va4e6qdTfyAY9bUgIUJaBGvAPKTqso3_ARpEnYM0gwIVV8843eyQvV4mXZ9H-1OR/s1600-h/Imax.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinCCafoKl9ksX66ORwue-a5qEoAnFnuW-BysFTMjnWFt_ZNhH1exIs7L9nLDRVemAtuz2-va4e6qdTfyAY9bUgIUJaBGvAPKTqso3_ARpEnYM0gwIVV8843eyQvV4mXZ9H-1OR/s400/Imax.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132807528384254434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The Imax Cinema</span><br /></div><br />On my way back from the forest I pass the Imax Cinema to see what is showing. A chalkboard outside lists a schedule for what is playing. Usually there are Nigerian movies during the day, but in the evening the schedule is full of English Premier soccer matches. Unlike in the United States where “Imax” means stadium seating, digital theatre sound, and an eight-story screen, in Malava “Imax” means a 19-inch color TV, no remote.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-oZJweK3Rw2aBVDvjcgJEiecdb_VhWZHz_XvrdUGgonLHRM27xzhctbC2aY58L-G4fGkEu5vqvKSJloImpMqD8Bq3VGNQem0BdqeCfmM9uTuUsqHrcoi1k6KNTSzRmspi85pw/s1600-h/barber.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-oZJweK3Rw2aBVDvjcgJEiecdb_VhWZHz_XvrdUGgonLHRM27xzhctbC2aY58L-G4fGkEu5vqvKSJloImpMqD8Bq3VGNQem0BdqeCfmM9uTuUsqHrcoi1k6KNTSzRmspi85pw/s400/barber.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132805741677859234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The Wornder Kutz Kinyozi </span>(barber)</div><br />Before I head home I stop at the Wornder Kutz Kinyozi (barber) for a hair cut. I believe the sign is supposed to say “Wonder Kutz” but because many of the older villagers cannot read, spelling is not important. Most Kenyans do not use scissors to cut hair, they simply use electric clippers to shave their heads clean. And because there is not much technique involved most barbers learn on the job. The barber shaves my head, but I am careful to give instructions for him to leave a little stubble. When he is finished he wipes the back of my neck with a brush made of animal fur and I pay him 10 Ksh. As I leave I again look up at the sign and think, “I pay for the haircut, but the laughs are free.” This, of all, is how I have chosen my barber.<br /><br />When I reach home the evening is beginning to set in and I am thinking about what to make for dinner. I fetch some water and cook some rice and look out at a picture perfect sunset. It is the perfect ending to another enjoyable day in my small village of Malava.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_kxxzX1hj6H-JdMT_V0JmdQv4aTlkXtKfoFH7DYYRu1P5fbGOJv-q5FXrwq3A1hWR6kAXrWVrUGJoHblGaJAqKWn6Pca9UqFzAxtSJfYjDHyNONXOTTIvuqVk_YHtyIZwA1vL/s1600-h/sunset.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_kxxzX1hj6H-JdMT_V0JmdQv4aTlkXtKfoFH7DYYRu1P5fbGOJv-q5FXrwq3A1hWR6kAXrWVrUGJoHblGaJAqKWn6Pca9UqFzAxtSJfYjDHyNONXOTTIvuqVk_YHtyIZwA1vL/s400/sunset.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132811471164232338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A picture perfect sunset</span><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com67tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-18255661602238958932007-10-25T23:45:00.000+03:002007-11-08T17:02:29.802+03:00The Kenyan Homestead<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbbuvcg7otWW1bM9wfOhuXXSRMz4YEhaCgzmNlwSGJRQ_oTuTYn540M_lQbssVI2FN5Ik6zeGiOXg1MpA3CTYxxzq2Ibov4Vedhxr3q2g5DBPSig9k5hgJm0BAYsqRupS53wq/s1600-h/Unmarried+Son%27s+Hut.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbbuvcg7otWW1bM9wfOhuXXSRMz4YEhaCgzmNlwSGJRQ_oTuTYn540M_lQbssVI2FN5Ik6zeGiOXg1MpA3CTYxxzq2Ibov4Vedhxr3q2g5DBPSig9k5hgJm0BAYsqRupS53wq/s400/Unmarried+Son%27s+Hut.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130213306296826418" border="0" /></a><br />In the village of Malava, I live very close to the marketplace where there are many shops, small buildings, and even some homes made out of cement and bricks, but if I walk only a few minutes in any direction I can see mud huts all around. A group of mud huts together make up the traditional Kenyan Homestead. In Swahili, the homestead is called the bomas.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5xkES5KtiOjP3UkZzVcWCSBu6P9WMbV-15mASDTnpF6WAaK2zszN1HEBqqYfwdWGTHcdJWrZ6e72dFjB88htUk22NI_Tc1A93JAlXziVgaq2w4QDEb3tcXynN1p3eU_ymVb7/s1600-h/hut4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5xkES5KtiOjP3UkZzVcWCSBu6P9WMbV-15mASDTnpF6WAaK2zszN1HEBqqYfwdWGTHcdJWrZ6e72dFjB88htUk22NI_Tc1A93JAlXziVgaq2w4QDEb3tcXynN1p3eU_ymVb7/s400/hut4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130208358494501346" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">In the village of Malava mud huts are all around!</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj803U8ub2P4jEUUMqYYbc6Fa7uZjH938jirACg2SkWPcHN0rYnQaq_eJnc4HSyqQF3ViB51UNpPh7_ubTWWT9xSPEXONrGMnUdZcS-oLSf7bJ99JJPD0WqHoQwF7E9qQ_Js7H1/s1600-h/hut2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj803U8ub2P4jEUUMqYYbc6Fa7uZjH938jirACg2SkWPcHN0rYnQaq_eJnc4HSyqQF3ViB51UNpPh7_ubTWWT9xSPEXONrGMnUdZcS-oLSf7bJ99JJPD0WqHoQwF7E9qQ_Js7H1/s400/hut2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130207774378949058" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">A typical mud hut in Malava</span><br /></div><br />The traditional Kenyan homestead is typically is made up of many mud huts built close together and occupied by many generations of the same family all living together. It is very common for a man and a woman to live on the same land as their children and grandchildren all at the same time.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwb5UFt5IkQ4FInee3heNeyQp1DD6Y_UqVuDxly5NCOQ_i0FE3_Dp7gJGgTyhhk_vBfYZ6cL-ucfPASP_aqEHj4Fz4chQEcMbJJx1an-Jl5fUxk-FmvL_ho8ceirlRXFz3pfk/s1600-h/hut1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwb5UFt5IkQ4FInee3heNeyQp1DD6Y_UqVuDxly5NCOQ_i0FE3_Dp7gJGgTyhhk_vBfYZ6cL-ucfPASP_aqEHj4Fz4chQEcMbJJx1an-Jl5fUxk-FmvL_ho8ceirlRXFz3pfk/s400/hut1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130207495206074802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A local Malava Homestead</span><br /></div><br />Some Kenyans practice the tradition of polygamy. In those families, each wife is given her own hut, but it is the hut of the man’s first wife that is always the largest of them. When the children grow old enough to be considered men and women they are each given their own hut as well. Then when the men get married they will bring their wife to live at the homestead, while the women will move away to live at the homestead of their husband.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAGaGaMwrkkFjbz_fjZnJHAtuy7DSu7BtWiCLcrRTSohwqliB2fSR3SWZZ_2USEk5-c-oxIt7l7HtX54bxfyKOK0vU8Ln0GhufNEk1H0XX1kW9GsL7XqOh_ZlX50eRYgtzt6kv/s1600-h/grainery.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAGaGaMwrkkFjbz_fjZnJHAtuy7DSu7BtWiCLcrRTSohwqliB2fSR3SWZZ_2USEk5-c-oxIt7l7HtX54bxfyKOK0vU8Ln0GhufNEk1H0XX1kW9GsL7XqOh_ZlX50eRYgtzt6kv/s400/grainery.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130207117248952738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">This small hut is used for storing maize and other grains</span><br /></div><br />The average mud hut is not very large and only contains two or three small rooms and so separate huts are built for the kitchen and the latrine. In addition to these huts other mud structures are also built for keeping animals and storing grain.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWMda92_AJPz999aQjW_scUhuSjZfMA9gxyzvW7gqKI6SLJwDP1M0U1X6vRH9dpdYKf3x_LYUmA5JGI9GinuQGq3q_vlV4fVPfS35Hh_zlXstt4bbVZGnyIbZUxvbOw0m681U3/s1600-h/hut6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWMda92_AJPz999aQjW_scUhuSjZfMA9gxyzvW7gqKI6SLJwDP1M0U1X6vRH9dpdYKf3x_LYUmA5JGI9GinuQGq3q_vlV4fVPfS35Hh_zlXstt4bbVZGnyIbZUxvbOw0m681U3/s400/hut6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130208723566721522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">This interesting variation is covered completely with grass thatch</span><br /></div><br />Each tribe of Kenya uses a different style of building and huts across the country can have a lot of variation. The huts from the Luyha (LOO-YUH) tribe around Malava are made in several stages. First the land is cleared and a foundation of mud is formed. This foundation also serves as the inside floor of the hut. Then walls are built up around the floor out of tree limbs and sticks. Afterwards the limbs and sticks are covered with several layers of mud and left to dry in the sun. Square and rectangular holes are cut in the walls to serve as windows and are fitted with small wooded shutters. When the mud walls are finished a cone-shaped roof is constructed of wood limbs and finally covered on top with grass thatch.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMiHktlAurOcwo3GB1k3e5ho4nWG6s2TesOaVNhWlJfY1-RNbalWQX5My4SsXuZ6LD6HER9x-c0jpbl06fSNcIUkflg9hL2kKi8Haz87uNNWQ836Y3_1ORyuCNIzjwO0Rb-pF0/s1600-h/hut3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMiHktlAurOcwo3GB1k3e5ho4nWG6s2TesOaVNhWlJfY1-RNbalWQX5My4SsXuZ6LD6HER9x-c0jpbl06fSNcIUkflg9hL2kKi8Haz87uNNWQ836Y3_1ORyuCNIzjwO0Rb-pF0/s400/hut3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130208053551823314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">This modern hut uses cement instead of mud</span><br /></div><br />The mud that is used to build the floor and the walls is made out of soil and water, but can also contain cow dung. When dried cow dung is said to be several times stronger than soil and water alone. Some modern huts can be covered with a layer of cement to make them strong and can even be fitted with glass window with metal frames.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8D9E5_CtK7GgxWsB6XDUntg0CX3l6U9pKg3kSY3CqAeGLE1V43U1UEtdP7qkUA9vm0uJnYsJfDZ6ajhPYxCTWDpKKzNt0qy95Jn3qPDnh7m1wsnRulKsMzYD6guKDe_fsh2d/s1600-h/Tom+%26+daughter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8D9E5_CtK7GgxWsB6XDUntg0CX3l6U9pKg3kSY3CqAeGLE1V43U1UEtdP7qkUA9vm0uJnYsJfDZ6ajhPYxCTWDpKKzNt0qy95Jn3qPDnh7m1wsnRulKsMzYD6guKDe_fsh2d/s400/Tom+%26+daughter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130212756541012514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Tom and his one-year-old daughter</span><br /></div><br />On several occasions I have had the great pleasure to visit Tom, the groundskeeper at the St. Julie Centre, and his family at their traditional Kenyan homestead. Every time I have come he has given me a tour around the compound. He always begins the tour by proudly showing me his hut, where he lives with his only wife and their one-year-old daughter. Then as we continue to walk around he will show me the huts of his father, mother, brothers, and cousins. We are followed every step of the way by all the children of his family. They are all very curious and shy at first but soon they all begin running and laughing and will dance to the music on the radio. When we get to the far edge of the homestead Tom shows me a newly constructed hut that looks very much like a house. It is made of cement and bricks and has glass windows with metal frames. I always remark at how nice it looks. Then Tom will smile and turn to me and say, “This is where you will live when you marry my cousin.” That’s when I smile and turn to him and say, “I think it’s time for me to go.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgORxUZN_yNk3ycQ7qm1fSj-lRCQjtnjIyel19Zhv44szuIavPeRmmnDAzIc0ei5Q98f8jYUeEJzl13fbax-z9Qw8TtI8lZJjiDkEsLP6xg6eyf5GJdZxh_2y26W9_uXnVHXkzU/s1600-h/kids.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgORxUZN_yNk3ycQ7qm1fSj-lRCQjtnjIyel19Zhv44szuIavPeRmmnDAzIc0ei5Q98f8jYUeEJzl13fbax-z9Qw8TtI8lZJjiDkEsLP6xg6eyf5GJdZxh_2y26W9_uXnVHXkzU/s400/kids.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130212417238596114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The children at Tom's homestead</span><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-58892239208853167872007-10-21T08:19:00.000+03:002007-11-02T23:57:57.056+03:00St. Julie Programme - Workshops & Clinics<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuTqgwSOWjxflSthjyCdc_MsfDnqvQmyFtIdgKeyX7HhSSmlSbbGpK6jOZl9DF750BVPHga0RN6XcoaYQ2fXIGWUl7_Gg39IbX9NhXZ4A6gxuSTkKZwRESNChlQ-7tGbugTgQ/s1600-h/reg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuTqgwSOWjxflSthjyCdc_MsfDnqvQmyFtIdgKeyX7HhSSmlSbbGpK6jOZl9DF750BVPHga0RN6XcoaYQ2fXIGWUl7_Gg39IbX9NhXZ4A6gxuSTkKZwRESNChlQ-7tGbugTgQ/s400/reg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127540775781791986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Ryan, Tim, and Joy sit at the registration table at the epilepsy clinic</span><br /></div><br />Currently, there are about 60 children that come to the St. Julie Centre, but there are over 300 that are part of the St. Julie Programme. The St. Julie Programme includes children as well as adults that don’t always come to the Centre for regular therapy. While the Centre specializes in occupational therapy, transportation and other forms of assistance may be provided for those children and adults that need surgery, medication, or eye treatment at a hospital or clinic.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdAsTb0qVhWhMP2Y_9u6deO6ornjulD2Q-yunABOv-2UFs-kJXuf3nXpQAgCzWdO1fw5CEZERzAxUvUTthTEApVFh3wj4fhxHEO2KsksODIdLGIbf_6HabjUan689bYtHqTsWI/s1600-h/wide1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdAsTb0qVhWhMP2Y_9u6deO6ornjulD2Q-yunABOv-2UFs-kJXuf3nXpQAgCzWdO1fw5CEZERzAxUvUTthTEApVFh3wj4fhxHEO2KsksODIdLGIbf_6HabjUan689bYtHqTsWI/s400/wide1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127542772941584690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Sr. Judi, the founder of the SJC speaks at a parent meeting</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXlidiBBDebNQkbQ5eHQIshNhts95Ado9KNLeHjW3GzPqor00hCtzB0cjxuFGAuatWTTDQTb8-YlDB3BVqcMY7e6lXfdDhZ3GQOUyTY4hrnvEb1xmTfoQRLgJDtF3TwLvg3-2R/s1600-h/angela3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXlidiBBDebNQkbQ5eHQIshNhts95Ado9KNLeHjW3GzPqor00hCtzB0cjxuFGAuatWTTDQTb8-YlDB3BVqcMY7e6lXfdDhZ3GQOUyTY4hrnvEb1xmTfoQRLgJDtF3TwLvg3-2R/s400/angela3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127538271815858338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Angela, an occupational therapist at the SJC, speaks about child deaths due to illness</span><br /></div><br />In addition to occupational therapy, the St. Julie Programme also holds local epilepsy clinics, eye clinics, and parent meetings, or workshops. They are all held several times a year, usually on a Friday or Saturday, when there is no occupational or play therapy.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpuqwL30l78PuYNFdqChYKgRZTsN_K8rZ0Hfq5-JXPV6ucyiDXLXEPWK5LmxgIOt_G41Xlcq3CMlL5WSDSaBaH0J-uFPwVha2VXAubgzBhsczpHxDXP_utGi7diQorE9pbaVnq/s1600-h/epilepsy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpuqwL30l78PuYNFdqChYKgRZTsN_K8rZ0Hfq5-JXPV6ucyiDXLXEPWK5LmxgIOt_G41Xlcq3CMlL5WSDSaBaH0J-uFPwVha2VXAubgzBhsczpHxDXP_utGi7diQorE9pbaVnq/s400/epilepsy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127539027730102466" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Stephen speaks about the treatment of epilepsy at the SJC</span><br /></div><br />The epilepsy clinics are normally held at the St. Julie Centre. On those days, Stephen, an epilepsy specialist, and his staff come from the nearby town of Mumias to evaluate the clients and to prescribe the necessary medication. Typically, 60 to 80 children and adults attend the epilepsy clinics and receive treatment and medication.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRaobpRyiWGyyjbhK6dDxf6GeiflGPQj6X5r_YGP9_0y9bVph1OOZ9Llp_h7jcmPyc-HrGGwwo4MwZIp0mc76gLYUMSdqXb9GxKcqlMCbJQOWihO5OaZ_8IpfDeEx5Hu6gNqY/s1600-h/Epilepsy+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRaobpRyiWGyyjbhK6dDxf6GeiflGPQj6X5r_YGP9_0y9bVph1OOZ9Llp_h7jcmPyc-HrGGwwo4MwZIp0mc76gLYUMSdqXb9GxKcqlMCbJQOWihO5OaZ_8IpfDeEx5Hu6gNqY/s400/Epilepsy+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127548180305410434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Stephen explains how a child can develop epilepsy</span><br /></div><br />The eye clinics are usually held in the St. Teresa Parish Hall. A team of specialists from an eye clinic in the town of Sabatia come to Malava to check people’s eyes and, through the St. Julie Programme, get the necessary treatment and even eye glasses. On April 29th, the Sabatia eye clinic evaluated over 500 children and adults from the surrounding villages and through donations given to the programme, over 100 received free treatment and eye glasses.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDho-gc-uXJW3eVWiZgKWt7RBkQTOf2RzNa6gPXMVNRObtMBNgRK1T3JIMz4byaJIn3oZWWV87_sO6YqygHjQ3gGSxC0LWNHe-oLKYF1uJzBXynSzgIDXYCRrC4oZbW9I1vmdy/s1600-h/Sabatia+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDho-gc-uXJW3eVWiZgKWt7RBkQTOf2RzNa6gPXMVNRObtMBNgRK1T3JIMz4byaJIn3oZWWV87_sO6YqygHjQ3gGSxC0LWNHe-oLKYF1uJzBXynSzgIDXYCRrC4oZbW9I1vmdy/s400/Sabatia+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127542210300868898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Over 500 children and adults line up during the Sabatia eye clinic</span><br /></div><br />In many cases, it is difficult for the people in Malava, and other nearby villages, to travel the distance to the nearest available treatment centre or hospital, so both the epilepsy clinic and the eye clinic are set up to bring the treatment to the rural villages, where the people are.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSOjKhHz0V2bXBIBZXkSUtfW2BUrxkTd1fcMRXg2BlaJwO5EWFg-alvo6qHsCx9gVbU5tLFVeGV-HVRY-AlR2qryGa_ll2h9B_ktKC83rSUcMX8kGy32Sg5t0bHhX3GcebZjih/s1600-h/judi5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSOjKhHz0V2bXBIBZXkSUtfW2BUrxkTd1fcMRXg2BlaJwO5EWFg-alvo6qHsCx9gVbU5tLFVeGV-HVRY-AlR2qryGa_ll2h9B_ktKC83rSUcMX8kGy32Sg5t0bHhX3GcebZjih/s400/judi5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127544469453666642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Sr. Judi and Neto, a SJC volunteer demonstrate<br />a locally made toy (a wheel attached to a stick)<br /></span></div><br />Parent Meetings and workshops, like the eye clinics, are also held at the St. Teresa Parish Hall. The main purpose of these meetings is to educate the parents and volunteers about disabilities, where they come from and how to treat them. Each parent meeting has a topic related to a specific disability and also includes modes of prevention and treatment. A speaker begins a talk and then opens it up for discussion among the group. The parent meetings are especially helpful because they are beginning to remove the stigma that is associated with disabilities in rural Kenya. While there are still many in the villages that hold on to traditional beliefs that disabilities are a result of witchcraft or curses, this is changing and many of the disabled are given hope for recovery as well as acceptance among the community.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvbsyT9vXNDe47FK7dRsN3AVMCzNmzEl1JzFLQtRarU7y6eWUgsKGZMKIBF54UL34sPpxwDdEo3y6-8UeQKsrnUaHo2EZj2ks45ty_-xILrPq4WNoiFFG0PtiRS7XYcepFYDrf/s1600-h/crowd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvbsyT9vXNDe47FK7dRsN3AVMCzNmzEl1JzFLQtRarU7y6eWUgsKGZMKIBF54UL34sPpxwDdEo3y6-8UeQKsrnUaHo2EZj2ks45ty_-xILrPq4WNoiFFG0PtiRS7XYcepFYDrf/s400/crowd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127538624003176626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The parents listen intently as Sr. Judi speaks about parent's responsibilities</span><br /></div><br />One particularly heartbreaking occurrence, that illustrates the need for education in the villages, happened some time ago when another local clinic was offering free inoculations for diseases common to the area. As an incentive for the villagers to come and bring their children to the clinic, each was given a free mosquito net for the prevention of malaria. However, because the people didn’t have the proper education, some of the them brought their children to be inoculated again and again , in order to receive yet another mosquito net. After begin given the same vaccine over and over many of the children began to die as a result of ignorance.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJRf6y6VQvwg4D6Yd7d-GSxrDo8hnUi3cBJIUcJyOEtjwVEm60vu5yMeUCeBSTzQ3Qpg_R26wZL6yoOAn9Vz_-cH3xn7DeOkSsu3nyNf7jfzFZdmHtoKW2TZRNS3TBmPVaR3wr/s1600-h/question.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJRf6y6VQvwg4D6Yd7d-GSxrDo8hnUi3cBJIUcJyOEtjwVEm60vu5yMeUCeBSTzQ3Qpg_R26wZL6yoOAn9Vz_-cH3xn7DeOkSsu3nyNf7jfzFZdmHtoKW2TZRNS3TBmPVaR3wr/s400/question.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127541286882900242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A parent stands to ask a question during the discussion at the parent meeting</span><br /></div><br />It is St. Julie Billiart, the founder of the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur, that we follow in the footsteps of who spoke of educating the people as “<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">the greatest work on earth</span>.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-18649108387859037522007-10-19T23:17:00.000+03:002007-10-19T23:30:51.483+03:00Eatin’ Bugs<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAAlZ-uE6jFBouSB54DTUhtcdiKyKvJBkreM9eu8nxdOYPtfRTUINpIqoOYjJRq3VmcvL_Eyc8cev040lrTgzD39NYSqk14m537SF-NnU15EKQpB8InFSSNzxsq52MFH5GFIko/s1600-h/eatin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAAlZ-uE6jFBouSB54DTUhtcdiKyKvJBkreM9eu8nxdOYPtfRTUINpIqoOYjJRq3VmcvL_Eyc8cev040lrTgzD39NYSqk14m537SF-NnU15EKQpB8InFSSNzxsq52MFH5GFIko/s400/eatin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123147072887077458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mmm, termites!</span><br /></div><br />In March, I went to visit Maurice, the parish cook, at his family’s home, in the nearby village of Shitoli. While I was there I had the chance to try a Kenyan delicacy: live termites. As Maurice took me on the path from his family’s compound, we came along a group of children sitting in a circle out in the field. They were drumming with sticks on small flat stones as they sat on the ground. At first, I thought they were playing music, but I was wrong. Maurice explained that the children were drumming on stones over holes in the soil to make the termites come out. The termites, who live under ground, think that the drumming is the sound of rain drops falling on the stones. When they come to the surface for water they’re caught and eaten or collected to sell in the market.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHZR-oNhtPmhlNnkJAnZsUl_OlLAhvuByjE2r2tqFPHZSC5XyO-W9MgMfEs_rY6_byZHwnJkD04Cu9tQ-IoVidTrzG0p0A4TFhYM9sY239b4-fjmHsaxyZw62UByoPlgTLVWn/s1600-h/termite.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHZR-oNhtPmhlNnkJAnZsUl_OlLAhvuByjE2r2tqFPHZSC5XyO-W9MgMfEs_rY6_byZHwnJkD04Cu9tQ-IoVidTrzG0p0A4TFhYM9sY239b4-fjmHsaxyZw62UByoPlgTLVWn/s400/termite.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123146050684860978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Termites: A Kenyan delicacy!</span><br /></div><br />What they call termites in Kenya aren’t the same wood-eating insects that we have back in the States. The termites in Kenya are about the size of ants and have two sets of long rounded wings. They can be found almost everywhere and sometimes I can find one or two of them flying around in my bedroom at night or even on my front doorstep in the early morning.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatvESeIoOKMgNM_MJc45D-xcIWPiLmx-16mxIMAaJYXO10lolF2eh4VJ1Y3zllPA4UwtvrDqplN_Qth01aGCCIWxcFNX6stEH6DN8CMz1M86jugrEDVLZjeTSNhPJXJY0gLOO/s1600-h/bugs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatvESeIoOKMgNM_MJc45D-xcIWPiLmx-16mxIMAaJYXO10lolF2eh4VJ1Y3zllPA4UwtvrDqplN_Qth01aGCCIWxcFNX6stEH6DN8CMz1M86jugrEDVLZjeTSNhPJXJY0gLOO/s400/bugs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123146742174595650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Termites coming to the surface for water</span><br /></div><br />Termites are usually eaten in two ways, live or fried. While fried termites with ugali and greens sounds better to me, some Kenyans say that they are sweeter when eaten “fresh,” meaning live. And so I, wanting to get the most out of my Kenyan experience, ate two of them live.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhac_e5sFd284UyLpH8LH3Sv9hoqeOKwLXL-vx7yKVfoAzGPCHNJ3WPonZeuBJ2y_MYM_q1R_3kqP5iIHtkuWD7wqhpcyKZ8UDBcDePWSOgdjxsYXKOSJDqgCyGl3wT0v204MZJ/s1600-h/kids3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhac_e5sFd284UyLpH8LH3Sv9hoqeOKwLXL-vx7yKVfoAzGPCHNJ3WPonZeuBJ2y_MYM_q1R_3kqP5iIHtkuWD7wqhpcyKZ8UDBcDePWSOgdjxsYXKOSJDqgCyGl3wT0v204MZJ/s400/kids3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123145612598196770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Children catching termites to eat and sell</span><br /></div><br />I have to say that there really wasn’t much taste to them. They were very dry and bland and so small that I could hardly taste anything before swallowing. Why anyone would eat termites is beyond me?!?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-78450539484026973982007-10-12T23:34:00.000+03:002007-10-17T01:14:01.782+03:00Birthday in October<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrIRjcjmiY4HyHCMwYb5DLdWKIrTfjSp7q-BjeQdUhvEWwMUeJ9GiSww2kgQCd7Z61GBqyEFRdRMdCiAvnZZMKokqo99SWO_92IqzJjJJg03V_gU3qJT8Nl6-X8d87MSGyRLW0/s1600-h/kool-aid.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrIRjcjmiY4HyHCMwYb5DLdWKIrTfjSp7q-BjeQdUhvEWwMUeJ9GiSww2kgQCd7Z61GBqyEFRdRMdCiAvnZZMKokqo99SWO_92IqzJjJJg03V_gU3qJT8Nl6-X8d87MSGyRLW0/s400/kool-aid.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122048214094330306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Enjoying some refreshing Kool-Aid on my birthday in October</span><br /></div><br />My birthday was in July, but I have had so much support from my family and friends that the packages are still coming. I got a notice today from the Sisters that I had another package waiting for me at the Posta. At first, it made me nervous because although I like receiving packages, I don’t like going to the Posta to retrieve them.<br /><br />There is a woman who works at the counter at the Posta who on a personal level seems nice enough, but when it comes to the business of sending and retrieving packages, she is the enemy. And every time I enter the Posta another battle between her and I begins. It is her job, when someone comes to retrieve a package, to charge the receiver with fees and taxes that sometimes can amount to more than the shipping cost. The Kenyan government seems to be very watchful when it comes to packages from other countries. Packages that are large and somewhat heavy are thought to contain items of significant value and are slapped with the most amount of taxes.<br /><br />The last time I went to the Posta I got into an argument with this woman about the quality of ketchup that was in my package. When she wanted to charge me an outrageous fee for a package, I pointed to the customs label and said, “It’s only ketchup!” “You want to charge me this much for ketchup!” She then promptly responded by pointing to the address label and said, “Yes, fancy American ketchup!”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhymoFXqlYP-adV7Otawqbmc28ffEzm30uj48gn6da0h1LG80CkfDK3x2S3afBiyRl2IGTr7nZC_AIRKL1KvXjk0gODUp682-jr1BdcUzABe18OmpEVKkhvD7fjQHhnpBzHod1A/s1600-h/day.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhymoFXqlYP-adV7Otawqbmc28ffEzm30uj48gn6da0h1LG80CkfDK3x2S3afBiyRl2IGTr7nZC_AIRKL1KvXjk0gODUp682-jr1BdcUzABe18OmpEVKkhvD7fjQHhnpBzHod1A/s400/day.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122050825434446354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Signed birthday banner</span><br /></div><br />So it was, when I heard that there was another package waiting for me, that I reluctantly dragged myself over to the Posta once more. In the end, surprisingly, it wasn’t so bad. My strategy was to say as few words as possible. I went to the counter, handed “the enemy“ my package retrieval slip, paid an unusually small amount in taxes and fees, and left without a word. It was probably my best trip to the Posta yet.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFgtFPWdwe24HFQAFFrnCmCNzTS-1Gmvw1ZSjnQb8wUUQlt0UzhbrQiqAcNBJmNyKXA5kO2VLORsrUmPPrJ-FLWxYr3c3ACLot70s_CNGz1bXgcIo5ffAPeO2ntU6xfcASXdE/s1600-h/st+therese+medal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFgtFPWdwe24HFQAFFrnCmCNzTS-1Gmvw1ZSjnQb8wUUQlt0UzhbrQiqAcNBJmNyKXA5kO2VLORsrUmPPrJ-FLWxYr3c3ACLot70s_CNGz1bXgcIo5ffAPeO2ntU6xfcASXdE/s400/st+therese+medal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122050142534646274" border="0" /></a>The package contained belated birthday greetings from some friends back home. Along with a signed “belated birthday” banner, I received a St. Therese medal, various books, including The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien, sugar-free Kool-Aid, and Twizzlers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCKzKcPbx1bnIPNh32Ba0tR5Iqqmsncz6r3YHVsgGgRMOdCBK-YZTltv45Hj8k72o7XV8mZr3OThoFMmVEdygnmUJi8YD4vzpOmfeKaLbIgSFVqSZUXMeHQljt_njcv07Mx5oP/s1600-h/book.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCKzKcPbx1bnIPNh32Ba0tR5Iqqmsncz6r3YHVsgGgRMOdCBK-YZTltv45Hj8k72o7XV8mZr3OThoFMmVEdygnmUJi8YD4vzpOmfeKaLbIgSFVqSZUXMeHQljt_njcv07Mx5oP/s400/book.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122048596346419666" border="0" /></a><br />Just when I was about to write a post titled, “It’s October, and the candy you sent me is all gone!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5kQThmXbs7Hg6YvnJISueVYu1ybkRHIc393JHPWfnsBerg7yx2cD5htjhlWo6FkeYdN72Qwrqxua7rekagXdFXrBKAhGLEn9e5qbhYa6ol75KHnQJmb6djjbOlk1NmlfNTMt6/s1600-h/twizzlers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5kQThmXbs7Hg6YvnJISueVYu1ybkRHIc393JHPWfnsBerg7yx2cD5htjhlWo6FkeYdN72Qwrqxua7rekagXdFXrBKAhGLEn9e5qbhYa6ol75KHnQJmb6djjbOlk1NmlfNTMt6/s400/twizzlers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122049743102687730" border="0" /></a>Thanks Rakhi, Tim M., Raquel, Erin, JP, Mike, Mary, Vicki, Andrea, Julie, Joseph, and Jonathan. You’re support of my work has been amazing! You have been in my thoughts and prayers everyday. I can’t wait to see you all when I get back. Sorry JP, the chickens can’t come!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-89820575510483502962007-10-08T18:58:00.001+03:002007-10-17T02:02:14.167+03:00Kenyan Cuisine<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz0TM0rQOP7Hu_rl8b-bHNjR1B1PpWXl83m1Bcspj6BGQZhGHiafT2Kyvs34SRM0VrpIzwHov13MD6yv6E96RcbpUQZV0ljPwHDKNiskAkkqiv5HzOpmNWzO3TU4_U4QOXSGRH/s1600-h/ugali,+meat,+greens.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz0TM0rQOP7Hu_rl8b-bHNjR1B1PpWXl83m1Bcspj6BGQZhGHiafT2Kyvs34SRM0VrpIzwHov13MD6yv6E96RcbpUQZV0ljPwHDKNiskAkkqiv5HzOpmNWzO3TU4_U4QOXSGRH/s400/ugali,+meat,+greens.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119002717209245986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Ugali, meat, and sukuma wiki (kale) is one<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">of the most common meals to eat in Kenya<br /></span></div><br />I have been learning throughout this year to prepare traditional Kenyan food. I don’t think I have, or will ever have, what it takes to slaughter an animal, but beyond that I have gotten some education in the Kenyan culinary arts and have developed a taste for African cuisine.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ffYardGf5eF3EjkhI_4WNdpoB_li_nIkhmZXyrA89mGAitg-GythViv__7VyUp7dWMZVMjZ-C-nHwGE88bqpqhNlusfZQgXFw-r4tBTiLE_ThRz_gbF8xUEQUwv1GlGfHAwz/s1600-h/fruit+stand.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ffYardGf5eF3EjkhI_4WNdpoB_li_nIkhmZXyrA89mGAitg-GythViv__7VyUp7dWMZVMjZ-C-nHwGE88bqpqhNlusfZQgXFw-r4tBTiLE_ThRz_gbF8xUEQUwv1GlGfHAwz/s400/fruit+stand.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118998967702796418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A fruit stand in Nairobi</span><br /></div><br />Kenyan food is, no doubt, based on what’s available. In Nairobi, while there is no McDonald’s, there are fast food restaurants and hamburgers, fried chicken, and pizza can be easily be found. However, in the rural village of Malava, much of what is eaten is grown locally in shambas (small farms) and many people are able to live off the land. Those that own enough land to plant more than they need can sell what they grow in the market. The main staple crops are maize, sugar cane, tea, and sukuma wiki (kale). Some villagers also raise cattle, chickens, sheep, and goats for meat, milk, and eggs.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdK2TBsnPxaYTSjhLgOcjvtUsr1j9F1nobnm21FfGfhljJjRPOeXB4aHAZTgswjY75ZPGibY7u4l2f927my58Z19YBjYD_qmugv5MwfN9uGOJiFBYGaBk_hqlCTQnMesAc5oJ/s1600-h/mama+aizan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdK2TBsnPxaYTSjhLgOcjvtUsr1j9F1nobnm21FfGfhljJjRPOeXB4aHAZTgswjY75ZPGibY7u4l2f927my58Z19YBjYD_qmugv5MwfN9uGOJiFBYGaBk_hqlCTQnMesAc5oJ/s400/mama+aizan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118999311300180114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mama Aizan sells vegetables in the market<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhelW8_q1-II_5DIzLFYGJhNmZuhQOlRV8ltnr4-1DES0WvmgATg3K3XOdJl3MLCa9nCIjoecTxfdt1TXJTLaxcF6B-2KDlWhddiSSgX2WxGLF3iLpox4K9GZzU977XFIvJ_rdb/s1600-h/fish+woman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhelW8_q1-II_5DIzLFYGJhNmZuhQOlRV8ltnr4-1DES0WvmgATg3K3XOdJl3MLCa9nCIjoecTxfdt1TXJTLaxcF6B-2KDlWhddiSSgX2WxGLF3iLpox4K9GZzU977XFIvJ_rdb/s400/fish+woman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118998460896655474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">This mama sells dried tilapia and omena</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div>At the market, some of the best food are the fruits and vegetables. Fruits such as pineapples, bananas, mangoes, oranges, papayas, and passion fruit are grown without chemicals, and sold for pennies on the dollar. Cabbage, eggplant, maize, beans, potatoes, rice, carrots, onions, tomatoes, squash, kale, and garlic are also for sale.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHv6pMtiQ5_Uzt5lbdi6LmEkQAvhSjphG-UMR5cfKJhLRcpeapptp0ZGSxnIfcRLSb0gCC3Tcq0wTXAQ4AT4jKIoNq1ACxu82AtBqVAow5rNlGW2y6JihrSAfKvgLkmWC2diV9/s1600-h/butchery.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHv6pMtiQ5_Uzt5lbdi6LmEkQAvhSjphG-UMR5cfKJhLRcpeapptp0ZGSxnIfcRLSb0gCC3Tcq0wTXAQ4AT4jKIoNq1ACxu82AtBqVAow5rNlGW2y6JihrSAfKvgLkmWC2diV9/s400/butchery.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118996060009936930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The Furaha "Happiness" Butchery in Malava<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCTP7m2h48r7_q3jjwqwjsmy6oi9CSU80y9E55BXDApoRkH16O1I7fEA2NB0qS9M1rHLtSEVL3gm07iP8TJ989AZR7D1Df3H7khq2j8OnIeFrsF_N1d0P9_nmA3WQ1bqbzdS6F/s1600-h/chickens+in+the+market.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCTP7m2h48r7_q3jjwqwjsmy6oi9CSU80y9E55BXDApoRkH16O1I7fEA2NB0qS9M1rHLtSEVL3gm07iP8TJ989AZR7D1Df3H7khq2j8OnIeFrsF_N1d0P9_nmA3WQ1bqbzdS6F/s400/chickens+in+the+market.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119077295021373842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Chickens sold live in the market</span><br /></div><br />In the city, meat can be found frozen and packaged at the supermarket, but in the villages beef and pork are sold in the local butcheries. Although the meat is inspected by a government health official it is not packaged and hangs all day in the sun of the open-air shop windows and typically has flies on it. Chickens are, for the most part, bought and sold live and slaughtered at home. The thought that all of the germs and bacteria will be killed when the food is cooked gives me a lot of comfort. Beyond that, it’s “Out of sight, out of mind!”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs68W6y2dcrVncN-wiYyAHqjF8t9NBWgJHZ-Z7eV4B2qfQKgnLSAZkA4jjBdgniqVBycaOLC67L-YntD8z26OIsM8lYMoFWXkv0UydzMVGTbi4NOeG8IWJ5jrBG8VZpDtSrw5D/s1600-h/three+stone+cooking.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs68W6y2dcrVncN-wiYyAHqjF8t9NBWgJHZ-Z7eV4B2qfQKgnLSAZkA4jjBdgniqVBycaOLC67L-YntD8z26OIsM8lYMoFWXkv0UydzMVGTbi4NOeG8IWJ5jrBG8VZpDtSrw5D/s400/three+stone+cooking.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119002223288006930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A sufuria (pot) is placed over a wood fire on three stones for cooking<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">The most traditional way of cooking Kenyan food is on a wood or charcoal fire built between three large stones, on which a sufuria (pot) is placed. Although this is method is rarely seen in Nairobi, it is still somewhat common in the rural villages. I, however, have never cooked this way. I use the most convenient way, which is on a propane stove.<br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNWEZrC6cduJ8v_MW0EHgF1cp2-B3I7BHlRXOQ-9q9OQfcBqeyByeESgV8127GMFAd0w5LZBkLoR46E9hdP6ZHQUfsEaMViQZwBADU6Yu7eB8UaZhD7pTEd0jlwlVvi50js6DZ/s1600-h/ugali.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNWEZrC6cduJ8v_MW0EHgF1cp2-B3I7BHlRXOQ-9q9OQfcBqeyByeESgV8127GMFAd0w5LZBkLoR46E9hdP6ZHQUfsEaMViQZwBADU6Yu7eB8UaZhD7pTEd0jlwlVvi50js6DZ/s400/ugali.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119064689292360050" border="0" /></a>Ugali is a main food of East Africans. It is made with maize flour and water and is cooked until the mixture is hard. It is served in large brick-shaped pieces and is usually eaten with meat, chicken, fish, or vegetables.<br /></div></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIXwEk-F6m-hZnUpLSxADKCWylkSuH2p44x8GSoqaPERbc1NdHCwBpofavQ-4SEl8F5PpURHbpSg9fkZaX0Mp5_U41UY-R66eyUmyo6cVvLcSiPmXhmMoh1md5GbAvwQevd42b/s1600-h/sukuma+wiki.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIXwEk-F6m-hZnUpLSxADKCWylkSuH2p44x8GSoqaPERbc1NdHCwBpofavQ-4SEl8F5PpURHbpSg9fkZaX0Mp5_U41UY-R66eyUmyo6cVvLcSiPmXhmMoh1md5GbAvwQevd42b/s400/sukuma+wiki.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119064040752298338" border="0" /></a>“Sukuma wiki” is Swahili for “push the week.” Sukuma wiki is kale, cooked with fat, tomatoes, onions, salt, and beef flavoring. This is also a main food of East Africans because it is inexpensive and easy to grow. The locals can eat this many days in a row on very little money and it gets them through the week.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg90J8fUAAJHxoZM738b2SY3WAvXS0Hg5Gfkjg_zgX6VJRKA1cCy5_Qvl066RoXU4BAoX9m2lJipgBq73VnMESAi6_ITEMLImj2gwv0VUVe8vP5YxGPCu73hzQW2s_AteYxeKOz/s1600-h/chapati.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg90J8fUAAJHxoZM738b2SY3WAvXS0Hg5Gfkjg_zgX6VJRKA1cCy5_Qvl066RoXU4BAoX9m2lJipgBq73VnMESAi6_ITEMLImj2gwv0VUVe8vP5YxGPCu73hzQW2s_AteYxeKOz/s400/chapati.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118997335615223890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Chapattis are flat bread, similar to a tortilla, made with baking flour and water and fried with vegetable oil. They can be eaten alone or with meat, chicken, rice, or vegetables.<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrxO3DrNpCF_nY51_5HYCWUQVJnQMDdW6Gkrn6DRSo_Cdnggi92L9eSCD-rT2Kl4oruQL5RN_A_ZzI5C3s1cEtCiNpcCKIFh4sjmvDfFHSK06hty8MyswjsxHa8_Yae-ts78Cu/s1600-h/pilau.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrxO3DrNpCF_nY51_5HYCWUQVJnQMDdW6Gkrn6DRSo_Cdnggi92L9eSCD-rT2Kl4oruQL5RN_A_ZzI5C3s1cEtCiNpcCKIFh4sjmvDfFHSK06hty8MyswjsxHa8_Yae-ts78Cu/s400/pilau.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119001183905921250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Pilau is a swahili dish made with rice, meat, and spices</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXcBdLDbpaCo91642k0XxEHFfGsvOko1fge7-MiRkG-UZjJA5I2b4Yzc_qH44CsevOpotTorxbQrviWjwLDBx0rJDXUsQL3QveoTEPlWyUDJOpPue87QpvFLRtGWExLVR_BW-/s1600-h/githeri3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXcBdLDbpaCo91642k0XxEHFfGsvOko1fge7-MiRkG-UZjJA5I2b4Yzc_qH44CsevOpotTorxbQrviWjwLDBx0rJDXUsQL3QveoTEPlWyUDJOpPue87QpvFLRtGWExLVR_BW-/s400/githeri3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119082083909908914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Githeri is a mixture of beans and maize cooked<br />with onions tomatoes, and beef flavoring.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45HWc7c2Ps4zpbaROme686qg6byt9n_MwlUW7W0zHdXBSb8Qyyqf7fg1QH-auqGslvgE7YKDW865emLdDrlD5mOqx6BvZRAFe45o-OLSMfOriknPxDD6c5-4t_vANVywsR-n4/s1600-h/samosas.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45HWc7c2Ps4zpbaROme686qg6byt9n_MwlUW7W0zHdXBSb8Qyyqf7fg1QH-auqGslvgE7YKDW865emLdDrlD5mOqx6BvZRAFe45o-OLSMfOriknPxDD6c5-4t_vANVywsR-n4/s400/samosas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119060295540816210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Samosas are a deep fried thin pastry filled<br />with meat, vegetables, and spices<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Generally speaking, Kenyan food is very hard, bland, and contains a lot of carbohydrates. In Malava, and many other villages, the people are used to hard, laborious work from sun up to sun down, so they eat food that is very hardy to give them the energy to do such work. Most Kenyan food has very little seasoning aside from salt, pepper and the natural flavors of beef, chicken, and fish. Surprisingly, it is very difficult to find simple condiments such as ketchup and mustard. Some available alternatives are tomato sauce and hot chili sauce.<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYyRURIyoNP-sefPw8n87Q3Wie4mza7qD21yL_Glv9fteUkXCsgn9ZK6LSqn27NiRY29aBj2kndKj5X5aly0jU5HupKljB0_cKOAd2594FrIkGXX_3iohOIghFKod4_FfIU6yt/s1600-h/omena.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYyRURIyoNP-sefPw8n87Q3Wie4mza7qD21yL_Glv9fteUkXCsgn9ZK6LSqn27NiRY29aBj2kndKj5X5aly0jU5HupKljB0_cKOAd2594FrIkGXX_3iohOIghFKod4_FfIU6yt/s400/omena.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119000831718602962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Omena are small sardine-like fish that are sold in the market.<br />They can be boiled or fried and eaten with ugali and sukuma wiki.<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KIkklQzEeGnLHmRhSwktdTF6MHuPLSB_4fq7SpiBrYZZ9-XVA1i1IxbPr1BFg3rgEOp5RabImBolwnF5q4Vw6l9KBOMEo3gJx6RO2KhwXDuhOF_r-U0J6MdG_6A6KlCSD2eX/s1600-h/chicken+soup+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KIkklQzEeGnLHmRhSwktdTF6MHuPLSB_4fq7SpiBrYZZ9-XVA1i1IxbPr1BFg3rgEOp5RabImBolwnF5q4Vw6l9KBOMEo3gJx6RO2KhwXDuhOF_r-U0J6MdG_6A6KlCSD2eX/s400/chicken+soup+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118998027104958562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">In many Kenya families one chicken must feed many people so no<br />parts go to waste. Chicken heads don’t have much meat on them,<br />but can be given to small children.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">In Kenya, washing before and after meals is particularly essential because most Africans eat everything with their hands. Although utensils are somewhat available, the people feel that a fork or spoon gets between them and the food.<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOU_x6-dnWVZmbv80g7u8Q92B_UGoIBgwwruw2kBr8NDjoKfnnbJvr1ww4QJdZKmf1-6tbqA2a0Lv-qOhaocgmM2HXYNvcliJmIyXYO1MNkTUGJpJQW2-8nYDjxQUpxJZPA6jL/s1600-h/fish.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOU_x6-dnWVZmbv80g7u8Q92B_UGoIBgwwruw2kBr8NDjoKfnnbJvr1ww4QJdZKmf1-6tbqA2a0Lv-qOhaocgmM2HXYNvcliJmIyXYO1MNkTUGJpJQW2-8nYDjxQUpxJZPA6jL/s400/fish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119059599756114226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Fish soup contains whole fish heads, skin, scales, bones and all<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">After the meal, fruit is typically served for dessert and then toothpicks are offered. Following dessert, chai tea is taken to complete the evening.<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsOS8cFB3qet8irs_hoNYopi6pmFTL4SP-xF6qN0ljgrg3gq_VysmWm8lYTxgdlEFDz9Z9Ndi8RdSCeTM32PxMSVHMs2yQwI5eZKKcX2qQAwIypiuPBttzeurghYeCRHjq-Zga/s1600-h/matoke.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsOS8cFB3qet8irs_hoNYopi6pmFTL4SP-xF6qN0ljgrg3gq_VysmWm8lYTxgdlEFDz9Z9Ndi8RdSCeTM32PxMSVHMs2yQwI5eZKKcX2qQAwIypiuPBttzeurghYeCRHjq-Zga/s400/matoke.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118999654897563810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Matoke is made from green bananas and<br />potatoes cooked with onions and tomatoes.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRxr13op4KI9QFxdt6IYTCJlxN7vDBj6818D2ljwVaS457Oj2p7Prn9FIm4vJtKTZ_8gVYYTnZiUevsnQXWTjvoWSzwNIahlSFrot-vdwAF5uu1RsVEG9YkQlRWb5l4Hka0MM/s1600-h/matoke,+cabbage,+rice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRxr13op4KI9QFxdt6IYTCJlxN7vDBj6818D2ljwVaS457Oj2p7Prn9FIm4vJtKTZ_8gVYYTnZiUevsnQXWTjvoWSzwNIahlSFrot-vdwAF5uu1RsVEG9YkQlRWb5l4Hka0MM/s400/matoke,+cabbage,+rice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118999899710699698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Matoke served with rice and cooked cabbage<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">One day I was having a conversation with a Kenyan about salad. I was telling him that I sometimes enjoy eating salad, but I haven’t seen much of that kind of food in Kenya. “Do you have lettuce here?” I asked. “Sure,” he said, “We feed it to the animals!” “Hmm,” I said scratching my head. Soon the conversation shifted and we began to talk about maize. Maize is similar to sweet corn, but it’s not sweet and the kernels are very hard. I said, “In America we eat corn, not maize. He said, “Well, do you grow maize at all?” “Sure,” I said, “We feed it to the animals.” “Hmm,” he said, scratching his head.<br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimx-HWHVgoNGTzK-MZJou59Qy5oXiBifDdMaiV5gVtptcQV3sFm9kHErCxNxfENyM1O_LRbwdkusQCSSiToUwJrNkecBR3Py0PSzBjehFWNN9OJeh7jwgOLVxKEvxTCodAbcTB/s1600-h/chai.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimx-HWHVgoNGTzK-MZJou59Qy5oXiBifDdMaiV5gVtptcQV3sFm9kHErCxNxfENyM1O_LRbwdkusQCSSiToUwJrNkecBR3Py0PSzBjehFWNN9OJeh7jwgOLVxKEvxTCodAbcTB/s400/chai.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118997043557447746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Kenyan chai is simply tea made with water, milk, and sugar<br /><br /></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com59tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-18652774173553540102007-10-05T20:06:00.000+03:002007-10-07T19:41:00.838+03:00Kuvasali Landslide<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpljycauMF145BA3iKKI7sxDC62ooDB7tc-29TaOhg8CFCrLQ0gtv0AScNUtLqQf7DzaxrV5-nTRxzo__ClZxy3WqHvumlV_J-VJbff9NqtjF4mDf35EsHHN48l3zNEk7-aIM/s1600-h/DN1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpljycauMF145BA3iKKI7sxDC62ooDB7tc-29TaOhg8CFCrLQ0gtv0AScNUtLqQf7DzaxrV5-nTRxzo__ClZxy3WqHvumlV_J-VJbff9NqtjF4mDf35EsHHN48l3zNEk7-aIM/s400/DN1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118632662827022290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A photo from the Daily Nation Newspaper shows rescuers at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kuvasali</span>.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(On the upper-left a hut can be seen covered to the roof)</span><br /><br /></div>In mid-August the village of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Kuvasali</span> was hit by a devastating landslide, killing eight people. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Kuvasali</span> is a village on the edge of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Nandi</span> Hills 30 to 45 minutes east of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Malava</span>. The disaster happened in the middle of the night when a large area of soil from the tops of the hills, loosened by the heavy rains, came crashing down on the village covering many of the huts to the roofs with soil, while the people slept. Shortly after, a rescue team came to dig the victims out when again another landslide occurred, covering some of the rescuers. Most of the victims are thought to have died from the impact of the heavy soil landing on them, while others are thought to have suffocated when buried alive.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPBa6IwR0mMOMu8h_4_cxLn-fZO53Ok9usjO14Ik4sWd_P6qrJk8udgHdcppJwfmjUpJD1QkGGLDscfGuI8YMoOrHf7uSAkKcfbbFo2uKV7Mz1esMN3yvJy-e50tWyjFXx3DE/s1600-h/caskets.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPBa6IwR0mMOMu8h_4_cxLn-fZO53Ok9usjO14Ik4sWd_P6qrJk8udgHdcppJwfmjUpJD1QkGGLDscfGuI8YMoOrHf7uSAkKcfbbFo2uKV7Mz1esMN3yvJy-e50tWyjFXx3DE/s400/caskets.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118272494238495698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Eight caskets contain the bodies of the victims</span><br /></div><br />Eventually the Red Cross arrived and, with the help of many people from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Malava</span> and other neighboring villages, they began to pull the dead bodies one-by-one from the mountain of red soil. While I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">didn</span>’t see it first-hand, I am told that it was a sad sight and many families of those trapped were gathered around wailing and crying over their loss. After three weeks of digging in the muddy soil as the heavy rains continued all eight of the victims bodies were recovered.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSp-sBYonfW7e_DeVR5pqrRGbx03Tsf4BjN6Mhw478WWv7qEQSHpwOtMaFazOX022DaoHP2QTPu0DwcbqZd-KEBUyjcbtwgdeD_MtRgrnJBr47PLMUYd6BrFOJ2fIXjz6Cc2pw/s1600-h/people1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSp-sBYonfW7e_DeVR5pqrRGbx03Tsf4BjN6Mhw478WWv7qEQSHpwOtMaFazOX022DaoHP2QTPu0DwcbqZd-KEBUyjcbtwgdeD_MtRgrnJBr47PLMUYd6BrFOJ2fIXjz6Cc2pw/s400/people1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118273013929538530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Thousands of people line up for the prayer service</span><br /></div><br />On a Sunday, early in September, there was an interdenominational prayer service held on the grounds of the police station in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Malava</span>. The choir from St. Teresa parish came to sing hymns and Father Paul, the pastor, was called to pray over the bodies. The story was covered by the Daily Nation and East African Standard Newspapers. Father Paul appeared in the Standard. Thousands were in attendance. People lined the roads to the police station to see what was happening. Many sat on the roofs of vehicles and shops nearby to see over the crowd.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC1UvR2OJIKns3YtcbsJMpXkbPUsTfj-RWVNS-x20PCmewhSvWpIVKcS0OqhTpH9YcZgyg9q-YXUWrSPaQHvvIAqlVCpze-eCB6V3QB9rsE1drvb_0fwFDi9R33NSJlOHPvHvC/s1600-h/people2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC1UvR2OJIKns3YtcbsJMpXkbPUsTfj-RWVNS-x20PCmewhSvWpIVKcS0OqhTpH9YcZgyg9q-YXUWrSPaQHvvIAqlVCpze-eCB6V3QB9rsE1drvb_0fwFDi9R33NSJlOHPvHvC/s400/people2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118273688239404018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">People ride their bikes to the service and line the roadside</span><br /></div><br />The choir sang and somebody read an account of the disaster and the rescue operation. One rescuer recalled a vivid dream in which one of the dead victims came to them to tell them the exact location of where their body could be found. And sure enough that was where it was retrieved.<br /><br />It was a beautiful service in remembrance of those that died and it helped to give closure to their families.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVn8PWJzhtJqv5J_o6338GH2tSOo2uWg15VGp8TNNYL8khz9uEJHHQXp9R59cjb53ET2YQimhlgfo8tHN5MrHxEkoDPUtb6FVb_wpFRoYXUUrFqOn3yJ-SXBybP8l4P6ZwFH4K/s1600-h/speaker.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVn8PWJzhtJqv5J_o6338GH2tSOo2uWg15VGp8TNNYL8khz9uEJHHQXp9R59cjb53ET2YQimhlgfo8tHN5MrHxEkoDPUtb6FVb_wpFRoYXUUrFqOn3yJ-SXBybP8l4P6ZwFH4K/s400/speaker.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118274096261297154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A politician speaks from a podium at the prayer service</span><br /></div><br />Unfortunately, because it is an election year in Kenya, many politicians used it as a venue to rally and after the prayers ended the campaign speeches began. Heads of the local government went back and forth placing blame on each other and what moments before the people placed in God’s hands was now wrongfully placed in the hands of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">human beings</span>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-53300978377887407932007-10-01T23:10:00.000+03:002007-10-07T22:21:58.021+03:00Unusual weather patterns on the Feast of St. Teresa<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAnDJeP_jXfAspo5M-V-2JNf7pDG7JnjZzR5H9yDRxHha7rPCEgPSkzr3Kc-3R9eVxbSrcM8s2byZFBU73wGgvs9Q9igJjWvRSK_5q-wkm4J0TbIgpJfbs1cHm_4lJUVFXg3rw/s1600-h/hail1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAnDJeP_jXfAspo5M-V-2JNf7pDG7JnjZzR5H9yDRxHha7rPCEgPSkzr3Kc-3R9eVxbSrcM8s2byZFBU73wGgvs9Q9igJjWvRSK_5q-wkm4J0TbIgpJfbs1cHm_4lJUVFXg3rw/s400/hail1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118676716306577410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">It's hailing in Kenya!</span><br /></div><br />They say that in Kenya we are experiencing very unpredictable weather due to El Niño. Back in April and May, many farmers were waiting for the first rains to tell them when to plant their crops, but when they didn’t come as normally scheduled, some began to worry. One church in Malava, the African Church of the Holy Spirit, actually sent it’s parishioners to a nearby mountain to pray to God for rain. When June came, their prayers were answered. The rains came heavy everyday and everybody seemed very relieved for the moment. But now it is October and the rains continue and everybody is wondering when they will stop.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLLR75khGCR6d60EeuSxAj-LKmdYb9QGN-98oR_IVLIJiDa5i9uilyBkmtStk3m0XPzwPcmCmuSJd2nHBn4mYT258R-Tn5S7G0udwPxp2jlYqkYp6l4qg2FUL_2hBuyUpOpOy8/s1600-h/hail2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLLR75khGCR6d60EeuSxAj-LKmdYb9QGN-98oR_IVLIJiDa5i9uilyBkmtStk3m0XPzwPcmCmuSJd2nHBn4mYT258R-Tn5S7G0udwPxp2jlYqkYp6l4qg2FUL_2hBuyUpOpOy8/s400/hail2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118677051314026514" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_D16GLAdKeZI/RwKmpTq888I/AAAAAAAAA0Y/eJCERLGESHs/s1600-h/hail2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_D16GLAdKeZI/RwKmpTq888I/AAAAAAAAA0Y/eJCERLGESHs/s400/hail2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116835355231581122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">My courtyard covered with hail stones</span><br /></div><br />Today the church at St. Teresa Parish was decorated in celebration of the Feast of St. Teresa (1893-1897). St. Teresa, “The Little Flower,” said, “We are like the flower that can lift it’s head after the storm passes, because of God’s mercy.” During her life St. Teresa was an unknown Carmelite Sister in France until her death at the early age of twenty-four due to tuberculosis. She is attributed to many miracles and her famous autobiography, “<span style="font-style: italic;">Story of a Soul</span>” was made into a motion picture in 2005. She was canonized in 1925 by Pope Pius XI and declared a Doctor of the Church in 1998 by Pope John Paul II.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEdISlEzhud545-OfGUdSwc1XHEvKkKwJlbBJwGuqJKfmMAVsEfaMoEUjlXRqjaIug6R1BMSeBc4nIMS0ZHvWQbETlDcSMajwTMJeaANePe-yq4Za-svVSoYzTX2NAzykr7-_a/s1600-h/st+teresa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEdISlEzhud545-OfGUdSwc1XHEvKkKwJlbBJwGuqJKfmMAVsEfaMoEUjlXRqjaIug6R1BMSeBc4nIMS0ZHvWQbETlDcSMajwTMJeaANePe-yq4Za-svVSoYzTX2NAzykr7-_a/s400/st+teresa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118675032679397362" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_D16GLAdKeZI/RwKmCDq886I/AAAAAAAAA0I/aEUIkDx5lpI/s1600-h/st+teresa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_D16GLAdKeZI/RwKmCDq886I/AAAAAAAAA0I/aEUIkDx5lpI/s400/st+teresa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116834680921715618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">St. Teresa decorations in the church</span><br /></div><br />While St. Teresa is said to send roses to those who pray for her intercession, today something even more unusual happened. Just as it was beginning to rain I went inside the house to take cover. When I was inside for only a few seconds it came hard and fast and there was a deafening noise on the iron-sheeted roof top. I had never heard it rain like this before and so I went outside to check it out. Moments after I stepped outside I was in utter amazement standing under the awning in my courtyard. My roof and everything else outside was being pelted by hail. I stood with my mouth hung open and thought as I began to laugh, “Hail!...It’s hailing in Africa!”<br /><br />St. Teresa Pray For Us!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-57077948349451762792007-09-27T23:39:00.000+03:002007-10-07T22:25:06.756+03:00Welcoming / Farewell Party<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrw3vc2EzfMqfSTCQp54m3wtj6jGbZd8RgTUYH-7drx2eytqG-6Oj6Im-8M0nIvWOHhDrnSze9n5OmK76pDCPKFxxXIldbxYw1OMlWdKAG3yI8SZUGybrFCz6wDTM8upMKPsE/s1600-h/timdancing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrw3vc2EzfMqfSTCQp54m3wtj6jGbZd8RgTUYH-7drx2eytqG-6Oj6Im-8M0nIvWOHhDrnSze9n5OmK76pDCPKFxxXIldbxYw1OMlWdKAG3yI8SZUGybrFCz6wDTM8upMKPsE/s400/timdancing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115720501980623666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Gettin' down with the SJC staff</span><br /></div><br />For the past couple of months, Angela, one of the occupational therapists at the St. Julie Centre, has been on maternity leave. Early in August she gave birth to a healthy baby boy. During that time the Sisters hired a temporary replacement therapist from Nairobi, named Situma. In the play therapy department, during the school break, we also took on a student volunteer, studying social work and community development, named Neto. In addition to that, Joy, a volunteer who had worked with us earlier this year as a postulant, just made her final vows in Nairobi as a Sister of Notre Dame and has now returned to the Centre.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSm_FXwkf024Uqwk644RpMS2Wtt9RimMsTtf9qR2bnXOba9XVemDgOqa6oxDTMF3EbgzvfSUokli6e4873kWWFvbupoX5TBcYIBbWNvzmDHweEIoCaxj6w_XPc5cHH6jSzPWk/s1600-h/guys.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSm_FXwkf024Uqwk644RpMS2Wtt9RimMsTtf9qR2bnXOba9XVemDgOqa6oxDTMF3EbgzvfSUokli6e4873kWWFvbupoX5TBcYIBbWNvzmDHweEIoCaxj6w_XPc5cHH6jSzPWk/s400/guys.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115733537206367122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Neto, Situma, and David discussing important matters</span><br /></div><br />With Angela returning to work soon and the school semester starting up again, we decided to throw a party at my house. It would be a welcoming party for Sister Joy, but also a farewell party for Situma and Neto, in appreciation for their hard work, before they would leave. It would be Sister Joy, David, Situma, Neto, Nancy, Postulant Caroline, and myself that would come to celebrate.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4KwiFjObTKzifE3WkYFEFYQhZgw4jIbXCnx_OraUbtHvqvdh-oOTfcQoTXXwh6gtZXceGjnP6dVUxBAvP_UdihwwaI9Y7L52JksPpkcH4pVjdgl5y2VhEvMKu3wZJ5t9Oqjl/s1600-h/cuttingfruit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4KwiFjObTKzifE3WkYFEFYQhZgw4jIbXCnx_OraUbtHvqvdh-oOTfcQoTXXwh6gtZXceGjnP6dVUxBAvP_UdihwwaI9Y7L52JksPpkcH4pVjdgl5y2VhEvMKu3wZJ5t9Oqjl/s400/cuttingfruit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115731771974808450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> Sister Joy cuts watermelon, Postulant Caroline cuts pineapple</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZoTDyTGEmJa6W9kWvAZk_yoUcIEIlUYT7l0C1Lm7-L5_B9kURIt7HGUdPjtM2kS3gcn98yHhbsT_4IOMynHANyQpsThVOOmwIPn27Md3QPaJ6weX0dCk7mfzaS70thk0CLkyV/s1600-h/watermelon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZoTDyTGEmJa6W9kWvAZk_yoUcIEIlUYT7l0C1Lm7-L5_B9kURIt7HGUdPjtM2kS3gcn98yHhbsT_4IOMynHANyQpsThVOOmwIPn27Md3QPaJ6weX0dCk7mfzaS70thk0CLkyV/s400/watermelon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115727824899863362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">While Sister Joy was cutting the watermelon I was eating it</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9NIW0QsaGASDQphwQdCPPEe0CH_iD-g4rXB7ogTTddNlue20Xuy-UDHY0zr90ThuHia2JGJpEWivwQjKA-m9b_XqCUx6DzuEGDBPymmId8DWNmMx4nkl_KxJQ7i3er2HwrFAs/s1600-h/fruitsalad.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9NIW0QsaGASDQphwQdCPPEe0CH_iD-g4rXB7ogTTddNlue20Xuy-UDHY0zr90ThuHia2JGJpEWivwQjKA-m9b_XqCUx6DzuEGDBPymmId8DWNmMx4nkl_KxJQ7i3er2HwrFAs/s400/fruitsalad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115715223465816770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Delicious fruit salad<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pFPPvD8JcmyJrL7U5oWer8D-Oc1e5AEIogNz7-YEv6EG3z6VS-jOCgfrXEK5ABTbqnnOfyyYJ8xtmBfS8t7r6QjU3f-2kSX9sjjExfsxzV-ILG_7m_q7OvD-8LU0aOhhWLIh/s1600-h/Maurice+%26+Kuku.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pFPPvD8JcmyJrL7U5oWer8D-Oc1e5AEIogNz7-YEv6EG3z6VS-jOCgfrXEK5ABTbqnnOfyyYJ8xtmBfS8t7r6QjU3f-2kSX9sjjExfsxzV-ILG_7m_q7OvD-8LU0aOhhWLIh/s400/Maurice+%26+Kuku.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118673228793133026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Maurice, the parish cook, makes roasted chicken<br /></span></div><br />Maurice, the cook at the parish, agreed to help us with the food. He slaughtered and roasted two hens, and also prepared pilau (rice with spices), chapattis (flat bread), soup, black ugali (porridge set hard, made of sorghum) , and greens in the parish kitchen. In my kitchen, I popped popcorn for the appetizer, while Sister Joy and Postulant Caroline helped cut pineapple, watermelon, papaya, and bananas to make a fruit salad for the dessert. Nancy carried a full case of soda from the shops in the market the day before, that chilled quite nicely in my fancy refrigerator.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hyphenhypheneneE6BbTyDH_JhRl8TfWDwZdLwDbLl9tpiDfnird_bqljDEDannkuCkyFAvkl_9Pu8yKZNBD7Tq_3Hbd66QSYai58IwpqmlSsAbjYOkfjY4Y-0CqleIgzZgQ19L7yqR9uA/s1600-h/soda.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hyphenhypheneneE6BbTyDH_JhRl8TfWDwZdLwDbLl9tpiDfnird_bqljDEDannkuCkyFAvkl_9Pu8yKZNBD7Tq_3Hbd66QSYai58IwpqmlSsAbjYOkfjY4Y-0CqleIgzZgQ19L7yqR9uA/s400/soda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115720003764417314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Refreshing "soda baridi" (cold soda)</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3dubWFepWs2rIFisSEVEcZosBy__xUK80ADaTtmcJpSx85jec_xvI3tglrCiqP_EoAevM53IkxpwQDo6hjq5PF0zcI9PT8_Y3fbFIleBkiKhLggUNk0k05ig39CJxyqrioiVY/s1600-h/nancy&food.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3dubWFepWs2rIFisSEVEcZosBy__xUK80ADaTtmcJpSx85jec_xvI3tglrCiqP_EoAevM53IkxpwQDo6hjq5PF0zcI9PT8_Y3fbFIleBkiKhLggUNk0k05ig39CJxyqrioiVY/s400/nancy&food.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115718208468087554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Nancy helps carry food from the parish kitchen to my house</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVrJztRJehcQyRMlKU1GG4t_ixfHx276K5iy4RnUWGTCGRT-12V9AhatIbXD5YDnlmYbRzL53XGw4YIogML-ewwMK0H7YVNkfEjbj1-M4cutJeZ9bO21ecDQlZ08j3pzmspYl2/s1600-h/plate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVrJztRJehcQyRMlKU1GG4t_ixfHx276K5iy4RnUWGTCGRT-12V9AhatIbXD5YDnlmYbRzL53XGw4YIogML-ewwMK0H7YVNkfEjbj1-M4cutJeZ9bO21ecDQlZ08j3pzmspYl2/s400/plate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115728494914761554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Tasty Kenyan cuisine</span><br /></div><br />Shortly after the food was all prepared, David, Situma, and Neto would arrived. The food was brought across the grounds from the parish kitchen to my house and then the party would begin.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAr-XZEkNwgoA7FesTB_JtTbtUgOLcTaJsuDD4QJJ6FN_4xDr7E9nKAzAGQ8cFviGVElfEspK6WkSr34rrnaRT_UYHJWVDMEFmkWBFULiPZ8EU3-390Cjy5FgCGwUd1cXlriNx/s1600-h/davideating.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAr-XZEkNwgoA7FesTB_JtTbtUgOLcTaJsuDD4QJJ6FN_4xDr7E9nKAzAGQ8cFviGVElfEspK6WkSr34rrnaRT_UYHJWVDMEFmkWBFULiPZ8EU3-390Cjy5FgCGwUd1cXlriNx/s400/davideating.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115714617875428002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">David about to eat his chapati</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtL7mK-M8rbb7vY41KrcZyl3A20_f0EtQImvB3QR2VDFgMKXOcJuvZG4Pj9IfuWIWLGNKVJfSzWyk6wFyvgT3NOHQdEZE3A_ECQ2JSu6U5UCEltrcmlP7ncHtHaT_8Vlk8cb7W/s1600-h/situma.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtL7mK-M8rbb7vY41KrcZyl3A20_f0EtQImvB3QR2VDFgMKXOcJuvZG4Pj9IfuWIWLGNKVJfSzWyk6wFyvgT3NOHQdEZE3A_ECQ2JSu6U5UCEltrcmlP7ncHtHaT_8Vlk8cb7W/s400/situma.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115719505548210962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Situma is enjoying some fruit salad</span><br /></div><br />At first, it started off slow, the usual introductions, small talk of work and what those who would be leaving would do afterwards. But then I made a run to Father Paul’s house for some gospel music videos, that are so popular in Kenya. I brought out my laptop, pushed play, and things began to get lively.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmUvwg29bKzPaF47sNH0TvLFj9PtkQ30VBBCxVv9gdi0au5a_amd1NSQg08lGy9oGozt0cts4RFwcwcY7uczgu273PZKAa9hLPlO4VjyppsYk-X2cgG__L0hQGiEImeDzv7NEK/s1600-h/computer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmUvwg29bKzPaF47sNH0TvLFj9PtkQ30VBBCxVv9gdi0au5a_amd1NSQg08lGy9oGozt0cts4RFwcwcY7uczgu273PZKAa9hLPlO4VjyppsYk-X2cgG__L0hQGiEImeDzv7NEK/s400/computer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115714390242161298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Kenyan gospel music videos on the laptop</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg20pnKldD1d1_cDRgScK9ho7U-V_gSIZPGa1BMz-vKyKo_EkvRp5CVY8DoUFmjciCwPp4zzivPYEAHysNVq2EmO5FJ8hCtFVRupxGan-8-GVNfni_ly-6gkXRMWMGCtOSiD1Rc/s1600-h/caroline.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg20pnKldD1d1_cDRgScK9ho7U-V_gSIZPGa1BMz-vKyKo_EkvRp5CVY8DoUFmjciCwPp4zzivPYEAHysNVq2EmO5FJ8hCtFVRupxGan-8-GVNfni_ly-6gkXRMWMGCtOSiD1Rc/s400/caroline.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115713685867524722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Caroline feels like dancing</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDu6omo09CPTiKL5YbqKLmzPNJTeRIF5dlQTzbC_YjnPqMl-e5i-XR2GthrzFR15aCI84K2S6SR2xti_s5Q_8lIR5bcvrqx-BC2Ph70YD-Jbt5MQcgqqNts8CE7UIldqL0atpY/s1600-h/joy&situma.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDu6omo09CPTiKL5YbqKLmzPNJTeRIF5dlQTzbC_YjnPqMl-e5i-XR2GthrzFR15aCI84K2S6SR2xti_s5Q_8lIR5bcvrqx-BC2Ph70YD-Jbt5MQcgqqNts8CE7UIldqL0atpY/s400/joy&situma.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115717731726717682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Sister Joy and Situma show us their moves</span><br /></div><br />Many Kenyans love gospel music and gospel music videos. Even the most introverted Kenyans can’t resist. When they hear the music or see the videos they have to get up and dance. And so they did. For myself, I thought, “When in Kenya…” and got up to cut a rug.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtn03trB3zVAHPeQUFIsc-m1feamTCYE2ZA5f2f1i1wRVkahe67tDtnIct0Kl2rEblDUhwoHI4aP29UyMfgEDQPmu3VndX5cgpwKl89CF0b0uQj8As8Mv8aoD8bLH4qAiId-h/s1600-h/group.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtn03trB3zVAHPeQUFIsc-m1feamTCYE2ZA5f2f1i1wRVkahe67tDtnIct0Kl2rEblDUhwoHI4aP29UyMfgEDQPmu3VndX5cgpwKl89CF0b0uQj8As8Mv8aoD8bLH4qAiId-h/s400/group.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115716344452281042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">All had an enjoyable evening</span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg20pnKldD1d1_cDRgScK9ho7U-V_gSIZPGa1BMz-vKyKo_EkvRp5CVY8DoUFmjciCwPp4zzivPYEAHysNVq2EmO5FJ8hCtFVRupxGan-8-GVNfni_ly-6gkXRMWMGCtOSiD1Rc/s1600-h/caroline.jpg"><br /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-56595177033699635572007-09-24T11:14:00.000+03:002007-10-07T19:33:41.696+03:00Bill Gates Commencement Address<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyM39cHkOQFMTi_9Ic-YcIEPca-i4n3Yyc75mJpyccuHgmEdakFusW-5HSC34OvVZ2xZiCV3IRURSyZR4zuqgleWoUzqQ9yyvC61QBTsVMCzy71_QRddnX0Mps1tpeY5PmGMBT/s1600-h/450Harvard_Commencement_MAMD102_641998807062007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyM39cHkOQFMTi_9Ic-YcIEPca-i4n3Yyc75mJpyccuHgmEdakFusW-5HSC34OvVZ2xZiCV3IRURSyZR4zuqgleWoUzqQ9yyvC61QBTsVMCzy71_QRddnX0Mps1tpeY5PmGMBT/s400/450Harvard_Commencement_MAMD102_641998807062007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114995769199096418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Upon <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">receiving</span> his honorary degree, Bill Gates said, "I've been waiting 30<br />years to say this: "Dad, I always told you I'd come back and get my degree."<br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;">On June 7<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span></span>, Bill Gates, CEO of Microsoft Corporation, in a moving commencement address at Harvard University, said to the graduating class of 2007:<br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> "I hope you will judge yourselves not on your professional accomplishments alone, but also on how well you have addressed the world's deepest inequities, on how well you treated people a world away who have nothing in common with you but their humanity."</span></span><br /></div><br />He has been called, “Harvard’s most successful dropout,” but as the Chairman of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, he addressed the graduates by saying,<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">“Reducing inequity is the highest human achievement.”<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;">His mother, who was filled with pride the day he was admitted at Harvard, never stopped pressing him to do more for others. A few days before his wedding, she hosted a bridal event, at which she read aloud a letter about marriage that she had written to his wife, Melinda. His mother, who was very ill with cancer at the time, saw one more opportunity to deliver her message, and at the close of the letter she wrote:<br /></div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"From those to whom much is given,<br />much is expected."</span></span><br /></div><br />He explained that when he left Harvard in the 1970s he had no real awareness of the awful inequities in the world-the appalling disparities of health, wealth, and opportunity that condemn millions of people to lives of despair.<br /><br />Bill and Melinda read about the millions of children who were dying every year in poor countries from measles, malaria, pneumonia, hepatitis B, and yellow fever; diseases that had long ago been made harmless in the United States.<br /><br />They were shocked. Together they just assumed, like many Americans, that if millions of children were dying and they could be saved, the world would make it a priority to discover and deliver the medicines to save them. But it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn</span></span>’t. For under a dollar, there were interventions that could save lives that just weren't being delivered.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">“If you believe that every life has equal value, it's revolting to learn that some lives are seen as worth saving and others are not.”</span></span><br /></div><br />So they began their work in the same way anyone would begin it. They asked: "How could the world let these children die?"<br /><br />“The answer was simple, and harsh. The market did not reward saving the lives of these children, and governments did not subsidize it.”<br /><br />Many skeptics to the idea of reducing inequity say: "Inequity has been with us since the beginning, and will be with us till the end-because people just don't care."<br /><br />To this he said, “I completely disagree.” “The barrier to change is not too little caring; it is too much complexity.”<br /><br />“I believe we have more caring than we know what to do with.”<br /><br />“We don't read much about these deaths because the media covers what's new-and millions of people dying is nothing new. So it stays in the background, where it's easier to ignore. But even when we do see it or read about it, it's difficult to keep our eyes on the problem. It's hard to look at suffering if the situation is so complex that we don't know how to help. And so we look away.”<br /><br />“To turn caring into action, we need to see a problem, see a solution, and see the impact.”<br /><br />“But complexity blocks all three steps.”<br /><br />“Cutting through complexity to find a solution runs through four predictable stages: determining a goal, finding the highest-leverage of approach, discovering the ideal technology for that approach, and in the meantime, making the smartest application of the technology that you already have-whether it's something sophisticated, like a drug, or something simpler, like a bed net.”<br /><br />“The AIDS epidemic offers an example. The broad goal, of course, is to end the disease. The highest-leverage approach is prevention. The ideal technology would be a vaccine that gives lifetime immunity with a single dose. So governments, drug companies, and foundations fund vaccine research. But their work is likely to take more than a decade, so in the meantime, we have to work with what we have in hand-and the best prevention approach we have now is getting people to avoid risky behavior.”<br /><br />“[But] we can also make market forces work better for the poor if we can develop a more creative capitalism-if we can stretch the reach of market forces so that more people can make a profit, or at least make a living, serving people who are suffering from the worst inequities. We also can press governments around the world to spend taxpayer money in ways that better reflect the values of the people who pay the taxes.”<br /><br />“If we can find approaches that meet the needs of the poor in ways that generate profits for business and votes for politicians, we will have found a sustainable way to reduce inequity in the world.”<br /><br />“This task is open-ended. It can never be finished. But a conscious effort to answer this challenge will change the world.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-20920699709126258912007-09-21T11:03:00.000+03:002007-09-21T11:59:36.838+03:00Black Widow<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR33ELIMS262aSlrPobEV4izMTLXpIXieVEnNPjL5NyPXApfkciFhwK-dnV1vjGxjrEpUX8DKOcphpk2DteZe7oyimO8gXRMHnAdBu8xxyorX4_IuZwJ94Jtca8GAWZIxLePeS/s1600-h/blackwidow3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR33ELIMS262aSlrPobEV4izMTLXpIXieVEnNPjL5NyPXApfkciFhwK-dnV1vjGxjrEpUX8DKOcphpk2DteZe7oyimO8gXRMHnAdBu8xxyorX4_IuZwJ94Jtca8GAWZIxLePeS/s400/blackwidow3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112568751899603538" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;">The deadly black widow<br /><br /></span></div>It seems that since I have come to Kenya I have had to deal with danger nearly everyday. If I am not dodging malaria infected mosquitoes, I could be killed and devoured by wild animals. If I am not killed by a crazy matatu driver, I could be robbed and beaten by thugs in the night.<br /><br />It also seems that when I am just getting used to living with one danger something even more dangerous presents itself.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2BFRVR0HSR5XMtNag-Sa1XegNmIVsohCPwsMnwk2FQYB_ZafW08nEiLYDWTtAzmBBbSX48GhTxBRQL4ENy6RvScB04wfYhqP0uUcT37umZNGaFsMTvDLmcJ1nLPEOwHP8MRoN/s1600-h/toilet1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2BFRVR0HSR5XMtNag-Sa1XegNmIVsohCPwsMnwk2FQYB_ZafW08nEiLYDWTtAzmBBbSX48GhTxBRQL4ENy6RvScB04wfYhqP0uUcT37umZNGaFsMTvDLmcJ1nLPEOwHP8MRoN/s400/toilet1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112567618028237362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Not a flush toilet!</span><br /></div><br />Just such a an occurrence happened to me last week when I was about to use the bathroom in my house. I was about to sit down on what passes for a toilet seat in Kenya when I noticed something crawling underneath. In the dim light it appeared as if it was an insect or spider and when I waved my hand to shoo it away I noticed something vaguely familiar, a red hourglass figure.<br /><br />I could always be mistaken, but it looked a lot like a black widow spider. I had never seen a live black widow spider before, only in pictures. So after taking a picture of my own, I killed it, doused the seat with insect repellent, and went to the internet to do some research.<br /><br />Female black widow spiders are gloss black with a red hourglass shaped marking on the underside of its abdomen. The venom of a black widow spider is reported to be 15 times more potent than that of a rattlesnake. Although a small amount of the venom is usually not enough to kill a healthy adult human, it does produce very unpleasant symptoms and can cause swelling up to 15 cm. Deaths in healthy adults from black widow spider bites are relatively rare in terms of number of bites per thousand. Only 63 deaths were reported in the United States between 1950 and 1989. Prior to the development of anti-venom, 5% of reported cases resulted in a fatalities. <span style="font-style: italic;">Improvements in plumbing have greatly reduced the incidence of bites and fatalities in areas where outdoor privies have been replaced by flush toilets.</span><br /><br />Never underestimate the power of a flush toilet!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-37759390425146412632007-09-20T11:37:00.000+03:002007-09-28T01:03:52.562+03:00Malaria<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPE4xH7JeHZV3aeOLXsCBPJ5cFkFSD3EWv-u_dtl8YvTwJd3x18y6hhQUbgWx8yfqx8hxtrjIlQs_DopaaF4Rv_9ubhs1DGwzpJSytp2xXUB9AxRgUDaWMetHMzUwDXWR_X3I/s1600-h/mosquito.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPE4xH7JeHZV3aeOLXsCBPJ5cFkFSD3EWv-u_dtl8YvTwJd3x18y6hhQUbgWx8yfqx8hxtrjIlQs_DopaaF4Rv_9ubhs1DGwzpJSytp2xXUB9AxRgUDaWMetHMzUwDXWR_X3I/s400/mosquito.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112440362442224162" border="0" /></a>Since I have come to Kenya the house that I have been living in has been continuously occupied with critters. Everyday there are innumerable spiders, beetles, flies, mosquitoes, and ants along with the occasional cockroach living with me. For the most part none of them really bother me except the mosquitoes which can carry the parasite that causes malaria.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPND_VmV7OjIG5Ov3_3YJCCpLvC28EEJmTVDjVvEOmVE4bUar5qFlMXiEo5q_t1Hb448tNgbSQ4jPDYCn_KSppIANlWyQckxpTf_eO96GO__fcoq721KvP-jAm7Q7bnkzeJ9fI/s1600-h/artenam.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPND_VmV7OjIG5Ov3_3YJCCpLvC28EEJmTVDjVvEOmVE4bUar5qFlMXiEo5q_t1Hb448tNgbSQ4jPDYCn_KSppIANlWyQckxpTf_eO96GO__fcoq721KvP-jAm7Q7bnkzeJ9fI/s400/artenam.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112440143398892050" border="0" /></a><br />In order to prevent myself from getting sick I need to take Artenam, an anti-malaria medication, twice a week as well as make the most use out of my mosquito net and insect repellent.<br /><br />Furthermore, I spend at least a couple of minutes each night on the hunt for mosquitoes before I go to bed. In the house, I go from room to room and since I cannot tell the difference between the malaria infected mosquitoes and the ones that are not, I kill them all. My hearing is acutely tuned to the sound of a mosquito's wings in flight and if they are around while I'm in bed it is extremely irritating to hear them buzzing in my ears. It’s strange how personal a mosquito bite or the thought of getting malaria is to me.<br /><br />In my work with disabled children it is unbelievable how many cases are caused by this illness. It is part of the work of the St. Julie Programme to educate the people of the surrounding community in the prevention and treatment of malaria.<br /><br /><ul><li>Malaria is caused by a parasite that is transmitted by the Anopheles mosquito.</li><li>More than one million people die of malaria every year, mostly infants, young children and pregnant women.</li><li>90% of the 300-500 million cases each year are reported in Africa.</li><li>Malaria remains the first cause of death for children under five in Africa. </li><li>A child dies of malaria every 30 seconds.</li><li>Symptoms of malaria include fever, shivering, pain in the joints, headaches, repeated vomiting, convulsions and coma. </li><li>If left untreated, the disease can spread to the brain causing cerebral palsy, other disabilities, and even death. </li><li>Malaria is both preventable and curable.</li><li>Although there are drugs that are commercially available for prevention and treatment of malaria none of them are effective against all strains of the parasite.</li></ul><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQoSvFOi-QM29sxGudxpMCLMxU4V3Ys2d47CHODDzJbFWliMOT8Af07moVY9WLR8-7pxqt_Aqq-f28XATfnlCep3nj5OjZQjc3DnNqGiqeevydVDLkj3oJpwdw43vf9B3xeVd-/s1600-h/spyder.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQoSvFOi-QM29sxGudxpMCLMxU4V3Ys2d47CHODDzJbFWliMOT8Af07moVY9WLR8-7pxqt_Aqq-f28XATfnlCep3nj5OjZQjc3DnNqGiqeevydVDLkj3oJpwdw43vf9B3xeVd-/s400/spyder.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112439920060592642" border="0" /></a>At least one upper corner of every room in my house is inhabited by a large long-legged spider. When I clean on Saturday afternoons I always think that I should sweep them all out, but another part of me says that they aren’t hurting me and that they may help to reduce the insect population, by feasting on mosquitoes. So we have made peace with each other and I allow them to stay, rent free.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-8457164518371677392007-09-12T22:41:00.000+03:002007-09-17T08:07:26.567+03:00Maasai Mara National Reserve<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOKXmfUnFrLdPkGfsiCbIXXOnWjF2GqYYizano18UvBjCvuiZ6FRYCZ4xrMNY9lA3VWwYSeNTpD4eUI1JwLD5LjnusrsBkbdU9yx7G8_0iMwJEHg8u5O9cvEZKfYaK_DzY6iCX/s1600-h/Maasai+grass.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOKXmfUnFrLdPkGfsiCbIXXOnWjF2GqYYizano18UvBjCvuiZ6FRYCZ4xrMNY9lA3VWwYSeNTpD4eUI1JwLD5LjnusrsBkbdU9yx7G8_0iMwJEHg8u5O9cvEZKfYaK_DzY6iCX/s400/Maasai+grass.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110144918276264578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The grassy plains in the Maasai Mara</span><br /></div><br /><div>The highlight of my parent’s visit was without a doubt our safari in the Maasai Mara National Reserve. The Maasai Mara, also known simply as “The Mara,” is the most famous game park in Kenya. The game park lies on the southwestern edge of Kenya and borders the Serengeti of Tanzania. The Mara gets it’s name from the Maasai tribe that inhabits the region. The Maasai are the most distinct and celebrated tribe in Kenya. They are a semi-nomadic cattle-herding tribe that is known for it’s resistance to modernization from it’s traditional ways. The Maasai's primary diet is meat and milk mixed with cow's blood. The name “Mara” means “mottled,” and is in reference to the Reserve’s patchy landscape. The wide open grassy plains of the Mara make up the stunning classical landscapes that are shown in many films that feature Africa and it’s spectacular wildlife. The Reserve is located in the enormous Great Rift Valley, which stretches vertically, about 6000km, up and down the continent of Africa. The Rift Valley begins from the Dead Sea in the Middle East and passes through the Red Sea, Ethiopia, Kenya, Tanzania, and Malawi. The valley floor is densely populated with Africa’s most amazing wildlife, including the famous “Big Five” game animals; the lion, the rhino, the buffalo, the elephant, and the leopard.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFFB2ieHENgw56_mJ88ClSluiGuD0D8QqB2J2ew2QdYLX1448P0TIJvUot3V7fow79mdWtU87lHyc1MrEu-lvWt2fNC6n0Olzi8xYVozwkykGyQVGGiCy73G-7NiW9dmGxWvyQ/s1600-h/maasai.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFFB2ieHENgw56_mJ88ClSluiGuD0D8QqB2J2ew2QdYLX1448P0TIJvUot3V7fow79mdWtU87lHyc1MrEu-lvWt2fNC6n0Olzi8xYVozwkykGyQVGGiCy73G-7NiW9dmGxWvyQ/s400/maasai.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110572087133590562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A Maasai wearing a "shuka" blanket and beaded necklaces</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqF8GKhr3DVnGfhgbjzNCS9DFirdhDKrrnl-Dy_OXV-Fwv6ACPizNMavYP1TlA_gKpzAJagWEfUdm1SuFCq4JnLCGES08zoHdfRi4yi_kDFqWYZyOJ86uY05LuFnjCBCY8Y_-H/s1600-h/Maasaiwide.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqF8GKhr3DVnGfhgbjzNCS9DFirdhDKrrnl-Dy_OXV-Fwv6ACPizNMavYP1TlA_gKpzAJagWEfUdm1SuFCq4JnLCGES08zoHdfRi4yi_kDFqWYZyOJ86uY05LuFnjCBCY8Y_-H/s400/Maasaiwide.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110147078644814514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A Maasai walks, in the distance, out in the Mara</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6U3r0XOtAmS0Ad9lqKgWBOldxM-LqcleH3Y0iHusryq4P765hWfH7K_WB3mosbPdeF_hsMlrBR1QIlvpirvgSffvGTZt_Lj27dfe5zNn5MC4d8BK9DZLM_VBIMHFAN5fAnOyt/s1600-h/herdofcattle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6U3r0XOtAmS0Ad9lqKgWBOldxM-LqcleH3Y0iHusryq4P765hWfH7K_WB3mosbPdeF_hsMlrBR1QIlvpirvgSffvGTZt_Lj27dfe5zNn5MC4d8BK9DZLM_VBIMHFAN5fAnOyt/s400/herdofcattle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110562436342076242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The Maasai cattle herds</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLzfHFQO7zrytSyaQ7LbVo8uCb33Ph3cre2xeu8Etk_61tFMmGTbHVRV2Qw1Ez69DBJ6XJVyGmWU_Yi485744BQRALTQqFEXN9KjTfNzznGWevqbmsSBNHKI6MEYg6bT1FTMJL/s1600-h/MaasaiHomestead.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLzfHFQO7zrytSyaQ7LbVo8uCb33Ph3cre2xeu8Etk_61tFMmGTbHVRV2Qw1Ez69DBJ6XJVyGmWU_Yi485744BQRALTQqFEXN9KjTfNzznGWevqbmsSBNHKI6MEYg6bT1FTMJL/s400/MaasaiHomestead.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110831206805525586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The Maasai Homestead</span><br /></div><br />On the first day of the safari we met George, who would be our guide and driver throughout the trip. We packed, boarded the safari vehicle, and began the several hours drive from downtown Nairobi, through the Great Rift Valley, and into the Maasai Mara. We stopped once when we got outside of the city along the high ridge of the escarpment to look at the breathtaking view of the Great Rift Valley. The view was simply magnificent. To be on the edge of this roadside cliff set high above all else around, looking down into the seemingly endless valley, I felt as if I might be able to view this vast continent of Africa as a whole. This spot, apparently the best place to view this natural wonder, was so frequented by tourists that it was packed with vendors trying to make high-pressure sales on anything from soda and snacks to wood and soapstone carvings to sandals and drums and other tribal souvenirs. After a short while, when the moment was over and pictures had been taken, we again boarded the vehicle and headed west.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAtFlrWW7FJHye9WStao830Oxy38Kftn334nVFejobea-lf__vMUBHKEccIs-jfwydzln5rr2ITRDukPMWJ6XzAJbYtvjWb0Fj7O0PZ63jQbYCHo8zceAYj9ZveN86Jyyz0bf/s1600-h/tim&tent.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAtFlrWW7FJHye9WStao830Oxy38Kftn334nVFejobea-lf__vMUBHKEccIs-jfwydzln5rr2ITRDukPMWJ6XzAJbYtvjWb0Fj7O0PZ63jQbYCHo8zceAYj9ZveN86Jyyz0bf/s400/tim&tent.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110147448012001986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Getting settled in my permanent tent</span><br /></div><br />Just as the sun was beginning to set we arrived at the Acacia Campsite, on the edge of the Maasai Mara game park. We unpacked the vehicle, got settled into our permanent tents, and George took us out on an evening game drive. As we were leaving the camp for the game park he pointed out a grave marker of a man who had been killed in the night by an elephant. George said, “That’s why we don’t encourage tourists to go walking outside of the camp after dark.” We were literally out in the wilderness surrounded by many deadly animals.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3AXCIgb3iEwO_GQTU3mxwL8ywcIFFWpl0Jd7kq6-oKDFy92mwHywXxBtVIva2gxKZ9hhEqfzt4fIC5ZNxONHF6et83xqMfEYfbc5CwSaqbVXdkLSjnHD4P7s_A3v7qY6e-iT/s1600-h/tim&vehicle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3AXCIgb3iEwO_GQTU3mxwL8ywcIFFWpl0Jd7kq6-oKDFy92mwHywXxBtVIva2gxKZ9hhEqfzt4fIC5ZNxONHF6et83xqMfEYfbc5CwSaqbVXdkLSjnHD4P7s_A3v7qY6e-iT/s400/tim&vehicle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110566868748325890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Boarding the safari vehicle</span><br /></div><br />That evening on the game drive we saw an adult male lion showing his dominance as he walked within thirty feet of the vehicle. He let out a terrifying roar and his eyes glowed in the darkness. As he walked he seemed to be chasing something. George said that the lion had been disturbed when another male had entered his territory and that when he found the other lion there would be a fight, that could possibly result in the death of one of them. Unfortunately we did not get to witness such a site and the lion ran off through the tall grass.<br /><br />As it began to get darker we headed back to camp and enjoyed a dinner of Africa food with some American and European influences, all prepared by a small staff of Maasai. We enjoyed meat, chapattis (flatbread), and baked beans from a can. While we ate, we sat and chatted with a doctor and his wife from Canada who had talked enthusiastically about witnessing the greatest single event in the Mara, the wildebeest migration. It was exciting to hear their stories and wonder with eager anticipation what we would see the following day when we returned to the game park.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibd3ImcL8C0aYyHnSA2wYBNdBMEhmPwqCa-DW0oMCUNc0q_7gVlr8rJojynGA_6K10weDrguEMjlg3-NGHosdbSlDXCV7pmB5AeVLUHevp-RVouyYO07qssUp4y0PYDk9gFzlK/s1600-h/Maasai&club.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibd3ImcL8C0aYyHnSA2wYBNdBMEhmPwqCa-DW0oMCUNc0q_7gVlr8rJojynGA_6K10weDrguEMjlg3-NGHosdbSlDXCV7pmB5AeVLUHevp-RVouyYO07qssUp4y0PYDk9gFzlK/s400/Maasai&club.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110145747204952722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A Maasai carves a hunting club out of a piece of wood</span><br /></div><br />Before I went to bed that night I couldn’t help but think about the lion we saw and also about the man that was killed by the elephant. I asked one of the Maasai if it was possible for an animal to wander into the camp while we slept. And without shuttering he said, “Yes,” and raised a small club from his side about the size of his forearm. He took a few swings at the air and when I questioningly said, “okay?” he assumed I was satisfied, nodded his head and put it down again. I went to bed that night trying to think of something else other than being attacked by a wild animal while I slept. You really have to be brave when you go on safari. Either that, or have a really dark sense of humor.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoSacc1gBenJB2h-CGarzDZqmKYpvU7uQYAVoYy8YqfHnTDHTSn0O6w9ieNT0uTjSgVQP0CpWC2ifpOb_Z9XmywuWyvXhyBZSNJbK0O_8SgNFaZngWgzLgfw8ZSBAkn9JAyI8s/s1600-h/vehiclestuck.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoSacc1gBenJB2h-CGarzDZqmKYpvU7uQYAVoYy8YqfHnTDHTSn0O6w9ieNT0uTjSgVQP0CpWC2ifpOb_Z9XmywuWyvXhyBZSNJbK0O_8SgNFaZngWgzLgfw8ZSBAkn9JAyI8s/s400/vehiclestuck.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110147907573502674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">When a vehicle gets stuck in the terrain<br />other vehicles are called to pull it out</span><br /></div><br />The next morning we rose from our tents early and after breakfast we boarded the vehicle and again headed back into the game park in hopes that we would at least get to see another lion and, of course, the wildebeest migration.<br /><br />We entered the large gates of the main entrance to the park and after George raised the roof of the vehicle to allow us to stand and get a better view, we began to see animals right away in small herds. We saw the Thomson’s gazelle, many antelope, some impalas, and even a few wildebeests.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_OxSP8ftF8pY75KuB4zmEzo1eIVk-fSQW2ANkqnTnuvGJ5yoofE_Z5-6r2uU5V13sgSfHcUSsZcBl0rRxVO6v_G3sc6M8vpdK11rAQy9PYyjDa02C43_dTfcMsf7HoT7h6sF/s1600-h/gazelles&antelopes&zebras.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_OxSP8ftF8pY75KuB4zmEzo1eIVk-fSQW2ANkqnTnuvGJ5yoofE_Z5-6r2uU5V13sgSfHcUSsZcBl0rRxVO6v_G3sc6M8vpdK11rAQy9PYyjDa02C43_dTfcMsf7HoT7h6sF/s400/gazelles&antelopes&zebras.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110561538693911346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Gazelles, antelopes, zebras, and wildebeests herd together in the Mara </span><br /></div><br />Not entirely impressed with only the few animals that wandered around near the gates, George assured us that these animals were year round “residents” of the park, but those that where involved in the migration would be many, many more. As we drove across the golden grassland the wind was breezy and cool in the morning.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieB41MagZx83fJQgDRm-pfD9vkk4VBwd1tjl210Yn4BlwZNQYwp3bnsd9QvOrsLxCCnScFZqBpPkvWfTHNGbzk-A4L3zqJp2_mG32F-Qa5DcyepkpQdkS-sbJpTORCvHo1Xpsb/s1600-h/MaasaiOstrich.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieB41MagZx83fJQgDRm-pfD9vkk4VBwd1tjl210Yn4BlwZNQYwp3bnsd9QvOrsLxCCnScFZqBpPkvWfTHNGbzk-A4L3zqJp2_mG32F-Qa5DcyepkpQdkS-sbJpTORCvHo1Xpsb/s400/MaasaiOstrich.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110146335615472290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The Maasai ostrich</span><br /></div><br />We drove some distance and George pointed out a Maasai ostrich. We continued and he pointed out the “secretary” bird, which has an arrangement of feathers that appears as if it is wearing a mini skirt and has a fountain pen behind it’s ear. We went on for awhile and eventually came to a giant herd of buffalo, several hundred at least. George explained that although the buffalo is not a predator it is still one of the deadliest animals on the Mara. In a fight, one-on-one, even a lion is no match for the strength and size of a full grown African buffalo. A lion can only hunt those buffalo that are so old that they fall behind the rest and cannot keep up with the pace of the herd. But even then, it can take up to three or four lions to kill a single buffalo.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJwhAV2DhEQGPelkoYbZ1V86n6WuuUzp-oTJTtTfR3gvuCGw028P5NmXlSFQq5hf2GEfzn9tGL0ChUfNc3z1chZyYyuai4xY3nRHrCFCmXAsC2wBklpovlEk9Zu4EmCMNjGsv/s1600-h/buffaloherd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJwhAV2DhEQGPelkoYbZ1V86n6WuuUzp-oTJTtTfR3gvuCGw028P5NmXlSFQq5hf2GEfzn9tGL0ChUfNc3z1chZyYyuai4xY3nRHrCFCmXAsC2wBklpovlEk9Zu4EmCMNjGsv/s400/buffaloherd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110559532944184034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A large herd of buffalo</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcSz5w6szXgqlpvDEZ3j5iK053Nu6JsTV0BwhzUj_fL1u1zbnJGIltzaCjLCPpx1yJhyGWW49OD52mZ-m6J5WlA4n8OeRD3O-eemKWKaNCyYw38cBRiujR5xF8ZwwdUgzMzkln/s1600-h/buffaloinmud.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcSz5w6szXgqlpvDEZ3j5iK053Nu6JsTV0BwhzUj_fL1u1zbnJGIltzaCjLCPpx1yJhyGWW49OD52mZ-m6J5WlA4n8OeRD3O-eemKWKaNCyYw38cBRiujR5xF8ZwwdUgzMzkln/s400/buffaloinmud.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110559777757319922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">This old buffalo couldn't keep up with the pace<br />of the herd, so he stopped to take a mud bath</span><br /></div><br />The herd of buffalo was our first big site of the day and at the moment it seemed hard to beat. George kept us moving but stopped occasionally to point out small animals and birds. It was just shortly after, that we came to a wide open savannah and witnessed something truly remarkable, the wildebeest migration.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhME1PiBZNBSi_46KY6Co8jcaZmUCYHQbWJ5QRebQCBitRQgx8ic3n03eUtdy1NDGNj9Qb0xiC3iCe_KZjpXS6y4BbwJPb8GVA6XTVxBg0dXRzT1GYvytB_nKe9_SoMlI93I7oS/s1600-h/migrationwide.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhME1PiBZNBSi_46KY6Co8jcaZmUCYHQbWJ5QRebQCBitRQgx8ic3n03eUtdy1NDGNj9Qb0xiC3iCe_KZjpXS6y4BbwJPb8GVA6XTVxBg0dXRzT1GYvytB_nKe9_SoMlI93I7oS/s400/migrationwide.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110565734876959698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Over 1 million wildebeests migrate across the Maasai Mara </span><br /></div><br />The wildebeest migration is the single most spectacular event in the Mara. Every year from July to October 1.4 million wildebeests make the 500km round trip from the Southern Serengeti to the northern edge of the Maasai Mara in search of fresh pastures and water. The migration is arguably Africa’s greatest wildlife spectacle and one of the World's most exceptional natural phenomena.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVQqeipH7l8zApAiviKdDPhnsIJte7aQrTjveZgSIVDV1piscIQkTHvMJ5KvgC0ZelM-wKQWJUQp597t2ORtDeIlarLMGtBT7PW5xMs15YQupKJqn53TfQYUZnVzLW24TKT18/s1600-h/migration3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVQqeipH7l8zApAiviKdDPhnsIJte7aQrTjveZgSIVDV1piscIQkTHvMJ5KvgC0ZelM-wKQWJUQp597t2ORtDeIlarLMGtBT7PW5xMs15YQupKJqn53TfQYUZnVzLW24TKT18/s400/migration3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110565464294020034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Wildebeests cross over the road in front of safari vehicles </span><br /></div><br />The event is actually only a fairly recent occurrence dating back to the 1960s. Prior to that time period, the wildebeest and cattle of the area were dying due to spreading disease. Around that time, 90% of the wildebeest population was eliminated. When the cattle were inoculated by veterinarians, to prevent further spreading of the disease, the illness disappeared from the region and the wildebeest population boomed. In the 1960s and 70s the population grew from 260,000 to the 1.4 million of today. This drastic growth in numbers forced the herds to migrate in order to find enough food and water. This immense migration effects nearly all of the animals of the region as hundreds of thousands of zebras, gazelles, impalas, giraffes, warthogs and all other herbivores join the pack, while lions, hyenas, cheetahs, leopards and other carnivores lie in waiting for the hunt.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJNA9sskwtdRNt2jw8AmuYz1ERAOCEFctzQ6APZZPr-rpVAnc7OThono4pB-apduhkbJ8DuIsnY49GRfUDStTCL3O-8IiaHK8EewhFzfYzAUFLzY24n-3AniIPIidq2kxyX2p/s1600-h/migration1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJNA9sskwtdRNt2jw8AmuYz1ERAOCEFctzQ6APZZPr-rpVAnc7OThono4pB-apduhkbJ8DuIsnY49GRfUDStTCL3O-8IiaHK8EewhFzfYzAUFLzY24n-3AniIPIidq2kxyX2p/s400/migration1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110565176531211186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A single line of wildebeests can go on for miles</span><br /></div><br />The sheer number of wildebeests is hard to visualize until you see it for yourself. In some areas they appeared as a black sea sweeping across the pasture. While in other areas, they formed a single file line tens of miles long, head to tail, as they walked slowly across the countryside. Those thousands of animals, at a distance, seemed as small as ants and it was hard to imagine that each was as large as the ones we saw up close. Many times a large portion of the herd would cross over the paths the safari vehicles used and the oncoming vehicles would cause the frightened animals to stampede creating the sound of thunder. The experience was simply extraordinary.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByTKaBgG5frTwywBY4hs69snkm0CrLjOvWXXxw9eqxBuvN7-u3Cj0wN2ldHwSzPZ-WqtejSaxTO3JplN5_GZAynhay79aiTrCjDR_hv485HW4-ppcGapQcuhkIpCJiwcotZl7/s1600-h/hyenas1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByTKaBgG5frTwywBY4hs69snkm0CrLjOvWXXxw9eqxBuvN7-u3Cj0wN2ldHwSzPZ-WqtejSaxTO3JplN5_GZAynhay79aiTrCjDR_hv485HW4-ppcGapQcuhkIpCJiwcotZl7/s400/hyenas1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110563587393311602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Hyenas by the roadside taking a mudbath</span><br /></div><br />We continued around the Reserve for several more hours until I though it would be the best time to tell George I needed a bathroom break. I asked, “How much longer until we get back to camp?” George smiled and said, “The camp is at least two hours away.” “We won’t be heading there until dinner time.” This is when George introduced me to the “bush toilet.” The “bush toilet” is a safari-goers worst nightmare. The “bush toilet” is exactly that, a bush. A bush that is conveniently located anywhere in the Mara, but inconveniently where there are usually large, deadly, wild animals. Just before we stopped for me to get out of the vehicle George said, “Look, a hyena!” Everybody stood up to see it while I sat down as my stomach tightened. Moments later when we finally stopped, I got out of the vehicle and crouched down in a bush. I thought of those hyenas as looked out in the field and over both shoulders. I was going as fast as nature would allow, but would it be fast enough? I don’t think I’ve ever felt more vulnerable in my life.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mZkd_eVsSDTRHidDrjkeS2eNsEQSCFFTciZ1z4disgcM_tV6IL1gxPCx14n1vtrsW9u-Otp7WgaVts_noN_fdWA_ACdoj6K6FghZJbCguLoYew4q4wWp0Eupx-By0GcFiBAm/s1600-h/hippos3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mZkd_eVsSDTRHidDrjkeS2eNsEQSCFFTciZ1z4disgcM_tV6IL1gxPCx14n1vtrsW9u-Otp7WgaVts_noN_fdWA_ACdoj6K6FghZJbCguLoYew4q4wWp0Eupx-By0GcFiBAm/s400/hippos3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110563097767039842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Hippos in the Mara River<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavOyOr6BNxQLhhYNkx4oRYWp9FqJ6ki0MvwwX9dSDJPKWlsrHxGCeWrmv44LXt5Ng5Ay2HOhlJZ_nf-SuO9cTP1_kqrmAKWy8HJjTjJwJSURytNZMUUrD1misYaHq0mYt9_kE/s1600-h/hippos2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavOyOr6BNxQLhhYNkx4oRYWp9FqJ6ki0MvwwX9dSDJPKWlsrHxGCeWrmv44LXt5Ng5Ay2HOhlJZ_nf-SuO9cTP1_kqrmAKWy8HJjTjJwJSURytNZMUUrD1misYaHq0mYt9_kE/s400/hippos2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110577065000686642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Hippos coming up to the surface of the water for air</span><br /></div></div><br />It seemed only minutes after I had reentered the vehicle, slammed the sliding door shut behind me, and was enjoying the safety of it’s enclosure that George wanted all of us to get out. He had taken us to an area on the Mara River, which runs through the Reserve, that is frequented by hippos. As we all exited the vehicle and looked over a small cliff down into the river, I looked around on both sides for predators. I asked George, “Is it safe to get out?” He turned to and pointed down at the river and said, “As long as you don’t get between the hippos and the water.”<br /><br />There were about four or five hippos swimming in the river together. They each went under the water for a couple of minutes and then inhaled a great gasp of air went they again came to the surface. We could only see their heads above the water, which, at this distance, didn’t seem very big, but George reminded us that full-grown a hippo can be up to 13 feet long, 5 feet tall, and can weigh 3 ½ tons. An adult hippo can hold it's breath under water for up to 6 minutes before coming to the surface for air. Although they are herbivores, or vegetarians as the Christmas song says, they can be very aggressive animals and can even kill a crocodile if threatened. But surprisingly,<span style="font-family: arial;font-family:Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:100%;" > t</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">h</span></span>eir major predators are humans and, away from the Reserve, can be killed for meat or their skins. So if any of you are still thinking, "I want a hippotamus for Christmas," think again. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKbD320efUlosy5OFFX49noNH-PmXQwWrBHBZQMX7Lre4Nx4i2uebFqzRmZDWKQmJZZaqplVVLH5_YRUV_pxf3PidJ1InHFD_x2LL55kIV0vcky06LNkE2VFKwK1yxQ1Ucy4Jj/s1600-h/anthill.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKbD320efUlosy5OFFX49noNH-PmXQwWrBHBZQMX7Lre4Nx4i2uebFqzRmZDWKQmJZZaqplVVLH5_YRUV_pxf3PidJ1InHFD_x2LL55kIV0vcky06LNkE2VFKwK1yxQ1Ucy4Jj/s400/anthill.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110142646238564930" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A large ant hill in the Mara</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><br />We moved on, later that afternoon, to the other side of the park where there seemed to be no animals at all. Typically when something major is happening many safari vehicles will be huddled around in a cluster, but George spotted something that no one else in our vehicle or any other saw, a pair of lions mating in a secluded field. We drove up to them only within a few feet, George turned off the engine of the vehicle, and we all waited.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdM4w4lApKdISTrev2RxC8FKBD86NdXXPsnNMW0jSYQ8Nn-bJb1ciuydDCFRjPPHPFD8QR_vtBcCFFq2hThBRSZqXtUMtXvCs4WPRpze0WO9uSy8RHJwxz56uZKn2MH8AjxVfe/s1600-h/lionsmating.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdM4w4lApKdISTrev2RxC8FKBD86NdXXPsnNMW0jSYQ8Nn-bJb1ciuydDCFRjPPHPFD8QR_vtBcCFFq2hThBRSZqXtUMtXvCs4WPRpze0WO9uSy8RHJwxz56uZKn2MH8AjxVfe/s400/lionsmating.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110564867293565858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Lions mating in a secluded field</span><br /></div><br />While we waited George quietly explained that the pair would sleep out in this tall grass, away from all other animals, and wake up every twenty minutes to mate. And it was only a few minutes after George explained this, that they did exactly that. The act was somewhat shocking, being so close to the vehicle. The only word that comes to mind to describe it is "rough."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3H5EmbQ48V6NzN8hFnPsV9OJ6QZdGzz9cx-AiHqz8cgF0WXKD7rK9u4L4daoV8JfjDWA-1ySWGwIroxybWk3FMVT-r1BGP9bRoayNd4wbUNK9IOhn9cZV-fe0Mzb20HYpZCMJ/s1600-h/lionpride.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3H5EmbQ48V6NzN8hFnPsV9OJ6QZdGzz9cx-AiHqz8cgF0WXKD7rK9u4L4daoV8JfjDWA-1ySWGwIroxybWk3FMVT-r1BGP9bRoayNd4wbUNK9IOhn9cZV-fe0Mzb20HYpZCMJ/s400/lionpride.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110564592415658898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A pride of female lions sleeps near the cool water,</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">always ready to ambush prey coming for a drink</span><br /></div><br />When they are not mating, male and female lions live separately. The females are more social and do most of the hunting. They generally make up the pride with the young. The males generally live solitary lives and a dominant male is the head of each pride. The males only come together when they challenge each other to mate with the females of the pride.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8GeLL9rlFBBptrlBNPFLiVORWz0Fgs5Dlp_CFKxj1-0UoZyx5iTQCTUk9vYyI-vSZ-1ThmFrRM-7Q7Coy0-llNy12lAV4W-4C3LAZPDZqQ3KJrQulinD9gcPJAEfBujwHvKM/s1600-h/lion1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8GeLL9rlFBBptrlBNPFLiVORWz0Fgs5Dlp_CFKxj1-0UoZyx5iTQCTUk9vYyI-vSZ-1ThmFrRM-7Q7Coy0-llNy12lAV4W-4C3LAZPDZqQ3KJrQulinD9gcPJAEfBujwHvKM/s400/lion1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110564145739060098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Lions on the Mara lazily sleep in the grass between hunts<br /><br /></span></div>After we had been there for over a half an hour other safari vehicles began to crowd around the pair as they were, once again, sleeping. Everybody remained still and waited for them to wake up again. Because our vehicle had been there first, we already heard the details of the mating ritual. Now we were quietly hearing the explanation over and over again from the other vehicle’s guides. After a moment of explanation, the voice of an older women in a vehicle across the cluster could be heard over the quietness, “They’re going to do what!” Everyone looked on and smiled.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjIKZveWUJ6rCs2QJpeVbzcQxafn5OD6iYC89R2tYcLlufJ5DvXXqReL3tNz7TN2fpgYh5iGEEoLt5ZnvX-vYePJD5IX3b7JxCus8NT7vZGuaotvjNDnpn7c2x2zd5OflCyoWd/s1600-h/giraffe3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjIKZveWUJ6rCs2QJpeVbzcQxafn5OD6iYC89R2tYcLlufJ5DvXXqReL3tNz7TN2fpgYh5iGEEoLt5ZnvX-vYePJD5IX3b7JxCus8NT7vZGuaotvjNDnpn7c2x2zd5OflCyoWd/s400/giraffe3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110579401462895682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A Maasai giraffe in the Mara</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ-ABZSBzpgB0EgwXe0u-BpsWq4HknG4bBq-SwI7b2nqvZ0pFcFhA29f2ydJtgNxtqvbXWl3MlkYrtMOB1Bz_HzrT8-xBIvFSaCKkZpb-0jauEV5nXmbu2zyjPqbIwJ7YUyQlC/s1600-h/giraffe2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ-ABZSBzpgB0EgwXe0u-BpsWq4HknG4bBq-SwI7b2nqvZ0pFcFhA29f2ydJtgNxtqvbXWl3MlkYrtMOB1Bz_HzrT8-xBIvFSaCKkZpb-0jauEV5nXmbu2zyjPqbIwJ7YUyQlC/s400/giraffe2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110561963895673666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A giraffe gets bite to eat from the tallest trees</span><br /></div><br />We ate a simple lunch of fruit and vegetable sandwiches out on the Mara that afternoon. The weather was simply beautiful. The warm breeze made waves in the tall grass. We boarded the vehicle and headed back towards the camp. On the way we saw a number of giraffes that towered over the vehicle. We watched as the giraffes ate the leaves from even the tallest trees. One particular tree was called the sausage tree because from it grew the sausage fruit, which George promptly added could be used to make alcohol or was a favorite treat for giraffes.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZWbYhOYB-wTyToi0LBebMapkgsdYl5UnaxmmwPCE3OjeVOGMCrSliLOtzY65A84cNCi-jRI-G4drzNGRzDB7NflsUiOlM1EsfOBomj6HgorEvZiqdE5Su8JAD7Lo66Xdcpop/s1600-h/sausagetree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZWbYhOYB-wTyToi0LBebMapkgsdYl5UnaxmmwPCE3OjeVOGMCrSliLOtzY65A84cNCi-jRI-G4drzNGRzDB7NflsUiOlM1EsfOBomj6HgorEvZiqdE5Su8JAD7Lo66Xdcpop/s400/sausagetree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110566473611334642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A sausage tree with sausage fruit<br /></span></div><br />Our first full day in the Mara was quite an adventure, but now the sun was beginning to set and it would be dark soon. We got back to camp just in time for dinner that evening where we ate and then enjoyed some time at the campfire before heading off to bed.<br /><br />The next morning, on our final day, we went out just as the sun was rising. We entered the gates of the park just as the sun was peaking it’s head over the mountains in the distance. Having seen just about every animal in the Mara the day before, on this last day, George said, the priority was to find the elephants. We drove in the direction of the mountains, one of their favorite spots, but on the way many vehicles stopped when somebody spotted a cheetah on the hunt. It was moving slowly across the plains as it kept it’s keen eyes on a small gazelle two or three hundred yards away. It slowly got closer and closer as all of those in the safari vehicles watched. Many photographers got out their huge bazooka style lenses to get pictures up close. It creeped up slowly in the direction of the gazelle, who was completely unaware. Then suddenly the cheetah took off at top speed like a gun shot. The gazelle turned it’s head to run, but it was too late. In one graceful move the cheetah jumped into the air and came down on the gazelle as it’s powerful jaws closed on it’s neck.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB-izIRFloYgob8omRwAtZ1L7nDGW_4aoM416pV6najqkH5FV0AoxWiDWJMqd9UjD4SWTjpIF7B92MY5wF-dWb85H9RYBBA06RW8ELjOs2Iy5-aeyxpfFZw4r5qhopD19ptgjg/s1600-h/photographingthekill.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB-izIRFloYgob8omRwAtZ1L7nDGW_4aoM416pV6najqkH5FV0AoxWiDWJMqd9UjD4SWTjpIF7B92MY5wF-dWb85H9RYBBA06RW8ELjOs2Iy5-aeyxpfFZw4r5qhopD19ptgjg/s400/photographingthekill.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110566091359245282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A cheetah strangles a gazelle as a photographer takes close-ups</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHK_4G3NcZjz7aIx5zUXjiaVB_Rftc1Y3Li-Nw3RrXDgTX0fqM9VN9Ipzztd-dQ2E4fbmMwtVxvdwT23TMzed500lLSIQFyD29NOq9Q3CFIa7Gc6665MmaiPC82XNKQbfx_P9T/s1600-h/cheetahkill1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHK_4G3NcZjz7aIx5zUXjiaVB_Rftc1Y3Li-Nw3RrXDgTX0fqM9VN9Ipzztd-dQ2E4fbmMwtVxvdwT23TMzed500lLSIQFyD29NOq9Q3CFIa7Gc6665MmaiPC82XNKQbfx_P9T/s400/cheetahkill1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110569162260861970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The cheetah looks up for predators</span><br /></div><br />George explained that the cheetah strangles it’s prey before it eats it, which it unlike any other predator in the Mara. The cheetah mainly feeds on small prey and, surprisingly, does not pose a threat to humans. Furthermore, George explained, the cheetah does not have retractable claws which makes it more closely relate with the dog family, than cats, as many people mistakenly think.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhve61va49WEUNqURT-ARA_q8M6Y4sF9Wq52uSp1xjmnMlupKLVbXDafPO5TgJZO_x8j58mli9TRJTbh3AQhM7llysbYRSmtRJWO4gYrIWp5mzHUhmedlY67qAnuM04gJ2_-em8/s1600-h/carcass.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhve61va49WEUNqURT-ARA_q8M6Y4sF9Wq52uSp1xjmnMlupKLVbXDafPO5TgJZO_x8j58mli9TRJTbh3AQhM7llysbYRSmtRJWO4gYrIWp5mzHUhmedlY67qAnuM04gJ2_-em8/s400/carcass.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110560495016858386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A wildebeest carcass in the Mara probably eaten by lions</span><br /></div><br />The cheetah began to eat the gazelle quickly while lifting it’s head every couple of minutes to look for it’s own predators, the lion and the hyena. As it raised it’s head from the carcass we could see that it’s mouth was stained blood-red. Kills such as this happen many times a day and carcasses can be found all over the Mara, but we were fortunate because it is somewhat rare to be able to be there to see it as it happens.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrIq0LmHlE1oK2S6zVtSEjvsksykt-ltSeB8KreWulrmjyoZ732ohdy8tB3TgXjCEDU4I2AlTcMU7faI3qwZAi6zH0whHnfGdT_ab5QFvH_jbDazFpQ4NQFxAZMnsQKdR8l0Rb/s1600-h/elephants4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrIq0LmHlE1oK2S6zVtSEjvsksykt-ltSeB8KreWulrmjyoZ732ohdy8tB3TgXjCEDU4I2AlTcMU7faI3qwZAi6zH0whHnfGdT_ab5QFvH_jbDazFpQ4NQFxAZMnsQKdR8l0Rb/s400/elephants4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110560198664114946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A herd of elephants at the edge of the mountains<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1kLWlLhT-wbhAulI3p6X2aOdl7xmeZEpZFfTcdG9_eEH36X2wXu-shLWXBvOgoz6jdaXHKx8ptrW_jvxWhBkU8PIXxAEinq3b070xrTvqQuhzaJtwI_8JOqopp0_bS7m1dYfb/s1600-h/elephants1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1kLWlLhT-wbhAulI3p6X2aOdl7xmeZEpZFfTcdG9_eEH36X2wXu-shLWXBvOgoz6jdaXHKx8ptrW_jvxWhBkU8PIXxAEinq3b070xrTvqQuhzaJtwI_8JOqopp0_bS7m1dYfb/s400/elephants1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110143273303790162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Elephant adults and young form a family</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOpd4bJUIJPvdiwpvvnQIxksXyDno9OSaXEC0LK-vc6fgdVGtI5GWt0BYtiXC4qZE9zdkmKZqX3v_wAT5dcDUyWfXtsRY02n5vos7xqDj6gV5WZw7MDUg8Z6cU18aGpt_osH4Y/s1600-h/elephants3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOpd4bJUIJPvdiwpvvnQIxksXyDno9OSaXEC0LK-vc6fgdVGtI5GWt0BYtiXC4qZE9zdkmKZqX3v_wAT5dcDUyWfXtsRY02n5vos7xqDj6gV5WZw7MDUg8Z6cU18aGpt_osH4Y/s400/elephants3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110144067872739938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A baby elephant eats grass</span><br /></div><br />We continued on as morning became afternoon and the sun rose high in the blue sky when we arrived at the edge of the mountains. We had followed a dirt road as far as it would go, but at some point George turned off into a grass field. For a brief moment the vehicle almost got stuck in the rough terrain. I couldn’t see anything in the area and I had know idea why he had brought us here or where he was taking us. George pointed out the window in the direction of the mountains. I looked out, but couldn’t see anything. I was puzzled, trying to figure out what he was looking at. But then it was suddenly clear. “Elephants,” said George. Just then a small herd of elephants seemed to come out of nowhere. They were feeding on the grass as they fanned their large ears. Although we were the only vehicle in the area, and at a very close distance, they didn’t seemed to mind us and went about there lives. Just like the day before when George spotted the lions in the secluded field, he knew just where to find the elephants. There were at least two adults and even a few young ones. They were living as a family. George explained that elephants are very intelligent and that although they were out away from the other animals they were very social with one another. They had very good memories of each other and formed very tight bonds, and even mourned when one of them died. The females spent most of their time with the young, while, at times, the males would show off for each other. A full-grown male elephant is capable of tearing an entire tree out of the ground, roots and all. There is evidence of this all over the Mara.<br /><br />At this amazing visit with the elephants our 3-day safari in the Maasai Mara National Reserve was over and we headed back to the camp where we had an early lunch, packed our things, and set out for Lake Nakuru National Park, on our way back to Nairobi. To go on safari is the experience of a lifetime and definitely one I will never forget. I am truly grateful to have had this great opportunity.<br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-57321210901948541412007-08-31T23:14:00.000+03:002007-09-01T22:53:58.098+03:00St. Julie Centre - Week 30<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_275zmQkxqJGUQmLPTF53IFup-byfXZTe19HBQnJhikF5qoVOX9CNlYHh9m-I8-TmakISQirw9c3FLi4C8kfAiE81R3JKdpnVE-eFUZTXGF54KHstP53eEWab-7A_sYso9F-/s1600-h/Orpa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_275zmQkxqJGUQmLPTF53IFup-byfXZTe19HBQnJhikF5qoVOX9CNlYHh9m-I8-TmakISQirw9c3FLi4C8kfAiE81R3JKdpnVE-eFUZTXGF54KHstP53eEWab-7A_sYso9F-/s400/Orpa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105233063860309874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Orpa rides the tricycle to help strengthen her club foot</span><br /></div><br />The Kenyan equivalent to the long and dreary winter in Michigan is the long and dreary rainy season of Western Province. It has been raining heavily in western Kenya nearly everyday since May. The dirt roads of Malava become rivers of red muddy water in the late afternoons and early evenings and by morning there is a sloppy, sticky path all the way to the St. Julie Centre. When I arrive at the Centre my shoes each weigh two pounds heavier and I shuffle across the grass to lighten the load. As I sit on the benches out front retracing the pattern of the tread on my soles with a stick, I can see that my newly washed pants now have a red speckled finish. As the rest of the staff arrive, one by one, the routine is the same. On these mornings it’s cold and the children and parents will come late. Everybody seems to have a similar tired look about them. Despite the slow start, all are ready when the children finally walk through the front gate and it’s business as usual at the SJC.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltmcIVQNjcXP61Wf7rAiRvPJigNO7YTWy7SKRHO-IprasR2ecDHksBk-qGQKn1igys3IHME5bOAfZCu99GbA1KLJj-HSKrQyUDOQKlgOOhR-xPNUITtz5lmhhOGn-B0gpuW36/s1600-h/road.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltmcIVQNjcXP61Wf7rAiRvPJigNO7YTWy7SKRHO-IprasR2ecDHksBk-qGQKn1igys3IHME5bOAfZCu99GbA1KLJj-HSKrQyUDOQKlgOOhR-xPNUITtz5lmhhOGn-B0gpuW36/s400/road.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105233867019194274" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The sloppy, sticky road next to the SJC</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcv9woWjO52ytHLTLnIN76xVxCFDCjGfGkPpHtnJ3mMCvtS275OhtrgAwvBatQ6-BDvYXPLiAwoKOhSxNCRh6gb8D9pzWFNLObLXfb2Rouel3gQ1FzEObUrHFhI0y6ojNvarcG/s1600-h/ephraim.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcv9woWjO52ytHLTLnIN76xVxCFDCjGfGkPpHtnJ3mMCvtS275OhtrgAwvBatQ6-BDvYXPLiAwoKOhSxNCRh6gb8D9pzWFNLObLXfb2Rouel3gQ1FzEObUrHFhI0y6ojNvarcG/s400/ephraim.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105231685175807778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Baba Ephraim brings his son, Ephraim, who suffers from<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Epilepsy and Cerebral Palsy,</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> to the Centre on his bicycle</span><br /></div><br />My work in play therapy seems to be going well, but it is not without it’s struggles. Sadly, their are parents who bring their children to the Centre that have no interest or desire whatsoever for their child’s recovery. It’s true. While there are some parents who are very good with their children and remain closely involved in every step of the therapy and treatment, many times there are others who seem to be merely waiting for their child to die so that they can be relieved of the burden of their disabilities. I have been told that some of the parents will actually use their disabled child merely to obtain the benefits of the St. Julie Programme for use by their other “normal” child, since some of the families receive food and money for transportation and school fees. Then when the disabled child dies from being neglected, the family feels only relief and they are content in thinking that, although they have been a curse, their lives were able to at least serve some purpose.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKULoOXqnZMTlpigCImPtFwKadnNglDv-zj22Rf1AECmEDWheOdmIVvXGdPtnJy00YrpP2UN0a8wh7ubiPlpl-Q67GZb8X-JDAzFg0XEGKNPBg3Oj4ELAcOIwx2qrTI1PHNTcz/s1600-h/Wincelet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKULoOXqnZMTlpigCImPtFwKadnNglDv-zj22Rf1AECmEDWheOdmIVvXGdPtnJy00YrpP2UN0a8wh7ubiPlpl-Q67GZb8X-JDAzFg0XEGKNPBg3Oj4ELAcOIwx2qrTI1PHNTcz/s400/Wincelet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105234914991214530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Wincelet is paralyzed on her left side and is stringing beads to<br />help increase the fine motor control in her hands and fingers</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div>My greatest struggle of all, even though it’s not always in my hands, is to try to prevent this very thing from happening. It is my job, not to cut the parents out of the process of their child’s recovery by doing the play therapy as everybody sits and watches, but to involve them in it by showing them how the toys can be used in helping their son or daughter. At the Centre, we always try to keep in mind that if the children only comes for play therapy once a week, what they do away for the Centre might be even more important in their overall recovery. But it is a healthy parent to child relationship that makes this “home therapy” possible and, in most cases, is easier said than done.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmfp8B4-k6iJ02nsiNrD8C9TfmUdMw2RlGnmvemoamYxG9gUuNQw2ASO2kGK-HXTyNmHMGZ-t70-gM0cc6a9gUJO2-BupIWew5PX-QJ5DPibmEITU0lu2pLL7K9PB-ZaXgLyi/s1600-h/bevan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmfp8B4-k6iJ02nsiNrD8C9TfmUdMw2RlGnmvemoamYxG9gUuNQw2ASO2kGK-HXTyNmHMGZ-t70-gM0cc6a9gUJO2-BupIWew5PX-QJ5DPibmEITU0lu2pLL7K9PB-ZaXgLyi/s400/bevan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105230899196792578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Bevan, who has Cerebral Palsy,</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> uses the "popper" toy to help him walk</span><br /></div><br />As is expected, some days go very well, but it is the tough days that make me think about my work more closely. While I think that some doubt is normal for everybody in this type of experience, it is on these days that I seriously wondered if my work here would bear any fruit. It was not until recently that I would realize that it would.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUc33V3kNoTR_dnuyyhayFQ8Prtt7jWjeRqye8jCnY1p9XMr69EZC9OUYCHdrbgKDUkJnWjW1_uqcM2NfjRmxW929zfP16mVyS-Pa5NQnsl4Wv6asPQirUfSwffEbtuxifSvE7/s1600-h/sylvia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUc33V3kNoTR_dnuyyhayFQ8Prtt7jWjeRqye8jCnY1p9XMr69EZC9OUYCHdrbgKDUkJnWjW1_uqcM2NfjRmxW929zfP16mVyS-Pa5NQnsl4Wv6asPQirUfSwffEbtuxifSvE7/s400/sylvia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105234330875662258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Sylvia, who has Down's Sydrome, uses the parallel bars to help her walk</span><br /></div><br />Besides my duties in play therapy, I have recently been given a new role at the Centre to collect membership fees from the parents of the children. This small registration fee of 200 Kenyan shillings per year (equivalent to just under three U.S. dollars) is not meant as a payment for our services, but rather is used to allow parents to play an active role in their child’s recovery. It also helps to motivate them to attend all of the therapy sessions when they know that it is costing them something. Many parents choose the option to pay this fee off over time. When they come to the Centre, week by week, they pay just a little bit more. For some, it may take months until they are paid in full. When they have cleared their balances, I then take a photo of each child and place their pictures on a board in the play therapy area. It is a fun way to show everyone which children are full members of the St. Julie Programme.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOBiXsyNqHttdWar1TG7_E7wgVyjg36Smd2OPVsL6E3EMGt_F3QOiffR49xyYXcbz8g17HOD_xxPUOs7kFJ3E38RsMBx4jtZurCnCSpfllYbrXtx1wAh3SfNJFgJmw3HaS3XO/s1600-h/board.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOBiXsyNqHttdWar1TG7_E7wgVyjg36Smd2OPVsL6E3EMGt_F3QOiffR49xyYXcbz8g17HOD_xxPUOs7kFJ3E38RsMBx4jtZurCnCSpfllYbrXtx1wAh3SfNJFgJmw3HaS3XO/s400/board.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105231337283456786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The "members" board at the St. Julie Centre</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSFcLziL-SLR2dXGo_nsoSxxSDOynF6Oh1zCMcRmphChwfBABjYSC4kxERrpLcgm4SwDjTCdTHwrpkZdr_ePZi4ThvSpSHCfVc6pBDmDxm8-scU29AuPCT9dD94zKdxQf5-05/s1600-h/Rael.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSFcLziL-SLR2dXGo_nsoSxxSDOynF6Oh1zCMcRmphChwfBABjYSC4kxERrpLcgm4SwDjTCdTHwrpkZdr_ePZi4ThvSpSHCfVc6pBDmDxm8-scU29AuPCT9dD94zKdxQf5-05/s400/Rael.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105233527716777874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mama Rael and her daughter, Rael, play together at the Centre</span><br /></div><br />Up until recently, this job of collecting registration and taking photos for the picture board was a tedious task for me. It was awkward to ask parents, who seemed to have little next to nothing, for their next payment, but frustrating to see others, who seemed more financially able, make excuses why they couldn’t contribute anything. Some of the children are also called by many different names which always made it more difficult to locate the record of their previous payment to obtain their current balance. I would have to look through dozens of carbon-copied receipts only to find that I was looking for the wrong name. When I finally found the correct name, I would have to write out a new receipt by hand and then search for the proper change, which was not always available. When the balance was paid in full, I would then take on the laborious task of trying to make their mentally disabled child look at the camera and smile for the photo. The process always seemed long and arduous.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhABUHKFYbI1bRs0iXWo1rnbDgBLlaSEyonuCYSqZIqNeh6AvuI-55Mw-_yGZvEB1GfdFCO8CTzhqElSi3XxTX6lDqxZcm7QD3nkNWG9XDlFIKCRaOy9F270XURkqmcePQsKv5x/s1600-h/joseph+weramondi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhABUHKFYbI1bRs0iXWo1rnbDgBLlaSEyonuCYSqZIqNeh6AvuI-55Mw-_yGZvEB1GfdFCO8CTzhqElSi3XxTX6lDqxZcm7QD3nkNWG9XDlFIKCRaOy9F270XURkqmcePQsKv5x/s400/joseph+weramondi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105231977233583922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mama Joseph removes plaster casts that help Joesph's arms and legs grow straight</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7YhHvYzq0qZ1SnW_GzjdVSesbA2n4DWjtSnGs67fvMVFZg4wUD6CMS8YIEBEZgtkhclWmmf7X1sMYBqZlgCL-zKwjZ1AMifC7njJre8C9_vfexdoieK9jGSPgKZg4kLhyutr/s1600-h/Naomi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7YhHvYzq0qZ1SnW_GzjdVSesbA2n4DWjtSnGs67fvMVFZg4wUD6CMS8YIEBEZgtkhclWmmf7X1sMYBqZlgCL-zKwjZ1AMifC7njJre8C9_vfexdoieK9jGSPgKZg4kLhyutr/s400/Naomi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105232823342141282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Naomi uses the standing box to help her stand and walk</span><br /></div><br />Last month, in July, I was instructed to focus more of my attention on collecting registration and encouraging parents to pay off any remaining balances, now that the year was half over. Needless to say, I was not looking forward to that job and at first, with some cases, it seemed like just another futile effort, but as one parent completed their registration fee they all began to come. The ones that did so became full members of the St. Julie Programme and began showing off to the other parents their child’s picture up on the board. Other parents began asking about their child’s photo and what they needed to do to get it up on the board. It was then that I really began to see their level of commitment. They began to pay off their registration balances left and right. And I began printing more and more pictures for the board.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYuFJPiodQXH6Se4Hs0RYRGC9PN3HaHIOd4L1sN5_wmfdgtcSIjGvkLjKaqgebSQT4T_j6Ulfwf3iGX_9Gn3ZocQn_Z_a6FrtQRq9xDGl24Xd8DsLnof91myrooLnZMcJDsKd/s1600-h/lucy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYuFJPiodQXH6Se4Hs0RYRGC9PN3HaHIOd4L1sN5_wmfdgtcSIjGvkLjKaqgebSQT4T_j6Ulfwf3iGX_9Gn3ZocQn_Z_a6FrtQRq9xDGl24Xd8DsLnof91myrooLnZMcJDsKd/s400/lucy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105232243521556290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mama Lucy and her daughter Lucy use a flute and a puzzle to help her speak</span><br /></div><br />In the end, it was this very task that I dreaded that helped me to put some things into perspective. I have been told that some work isn’t always about bearing fruit and reaping the benefits. Some work is about planting the seeds and waiting patiently. This type of work seems to be the most difficult of all because, without immediate results, there is always an opportunity to fall into doubt along the way. Then it is very possible to quit even before one has reach their goal.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdylOHAraIh9FJrprS05Xg_3ZsWE8-csrLwzPlZtiVhJdEXLQ3pjw642-nxMtQ23I3Bl0sUFcGsfhw2L0S40AsWrLGBuUP6t2o9TMCzqOsz-MpWn3Pg6qtlCReXieTshZnQjGZ/s1600-h/priscah.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdylOHAraIh9FJrprS05Xg_3ZsWE8-csrLwzPlZtiVhJdEXLQ3pjw642-nxMtQ23I3Bl0sUFcGsfhw2L0S40AsWrLGBuUP6t2o9TMCzqOsz-MpWn3Pg6qtlCReXieTshZnQjGZ/s400/priscah.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105233308673445762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Priscah, who is paralyzed on her left side, strings<br />beads to help increase her fine motor control</span><br /></div><br />Until a couple of months ago, the board was pretty unimpressive. There were about twenty to thirty pictures filling scarcely one-third of the board. The staff pictures alone took up a great portion of that. But this week, I put up the last few of a bunch I just printed and then stood back to have a look. There are now eighty-six pictures on the board! I really couldn’t believe it! It was over two-thirds full! I took a moment to think about just what this meant. I was actually seeing the results of some of my work. It went way beyond a mere picture board. I was seeing how I, and many others, have touched the lives of these eighty-six children. When the programme started several years ago, there where only six. Now there are eighty-six. In the tiny village of Malava that’s huge! And what’s more, it’s not even close to being finished. There are many that are still showing their commitment little by little and new parents continue to come and bring their children with them everyday. Angela, one of the therapists, said that the board will be filled very soon and we will have to find another place to put the new pictures. I, with a renewed spirit, took this task and without hesitation. I now renewed my own commitment to the St. Julie Centre. I was seeing it through different eyes. The seeds I helped plant were beginning to grow.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBmB4Skh01OuKMg8J-ZOLcAskT30jo4p5AHOntNQ6yCVAUtEg06MIjIMfFdGdxrJBFaoJ0VQYm1n4Kqudo741D6ilfHa-fN4keyT5FqE-Tl0w7bBwz6A2f1REr24-tDOWHChf/s1600-h/mercy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBmB4Skh01OuKMg8J-ZOLcAskT30jo4p5AHOntNQ6yCVAUtEg06MIjIMfFdGdxrJBFaoJ0VQYm1n4Kqudo741D6ilfHa-fN4keyT5FqE-Tl0w7bBwz6A2f1REr24-tDOWHChf/s400/mercy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105232595708874578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mercy rides the tricycle to help increase the<br />gross motor control in her arms and legs</span><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-37475597970268512942007-08-24T08:29:00.000+03:002007-08-28T18:07:26.368+03:00Karen Blixen<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjul_AQfcE7JyayTpL-7e0JkZ89xmIOUpFy-eZMx0zUn14hI0Qik_ESqs4rqVuy5syP8iVm4GZ88v0BOC5mtTToU0pOy2E0KyvgoVOh895o_v54eGtmr2Mquu_4YSJxXxshzRbJ/s1600-h/karen+potrait.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjul_AQfcE7JyayTpL-7e0JkZ89xmIOUpFy-eZMx0zUn14hI0Qik_ESqs4rqVuy5syP8iVm4GZ88v0BOC5mtTToU0pOy2E0KyvgoVOh895o_v54eGtmr2Mquu_4YSJxXxshzRbJ/s400/karen+potrait.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102139583600594562" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >“I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills.”</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Isak Dinesen</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > <span> from Out of Africa</span></span> </div><br />The Karen Blixen Museum is housed in the farmhouse where Karen Blixen, a Danish aristocrat who once owned a coffee plantation in Kenya, lived between 1914 and 1931. Her famous memoir<span style="font-style: italic;">, Out of Africa,</span> chronicles that prominent period in her life. The museum is located in Karen, a suburb of Nairobi that takes it’s name from Karen Blixen. The farmhouse along with the nearby agricultural college was presented to the Kenyan government at Independence, around 1963, by the Danish government.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWT9_InAXLf_acegCQOp10X4TivY3OGzYiiSC30NrikTCXWJRk5dXI60b_2nTSeMrL9ThKQQeJpGWVa1-XFONpphgVOshd-dTp5Ydf89kyrX_OC-eUaAZAZbUWpioRGLfdlRgY/s1600-h/house+color.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWT9_InAXLf_acegCQOp10X4TivY3OGzYiiSC30NrikTCXWJRk5dXI60b_2nTSeMrL9ThKQQeJpGWVa1-XFONpphgVOshd-dTp5Ydf89kyrX_OC-eUaAZAZbUWpioRGLfdlRgY/s400/house+color.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103129040986377890" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size:85%;">The Karen Blixen Museum as it looks today</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPrwfwea9S12Hsom-thehyHBpYHQE2BXPqK5xRVZ_HHrNH7y4baLdp4tzRP2Qkg_RHFHruOzT0QkIHQPVp91uusD87PjJ4MsasAR5D7xy5UlcxjkHmDUv7g8SuxQpP6urQ5rdG/s1600-h/house.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPrwfwea9S12Hsom-thehyHBpYHQE2BXPqK5xRVZ_HHrNH7y4baLdp4tzRP2Qkg_RHFHruOzT0QkIHQPVp91uusD87PjJ4MsasAR5D7xy5UlcxjkHmDUv7g8SuxQpP6urQ5rdG/s400/house.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102135885633752658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The farmhouse at the Karen Coffee Company Plantation from 1914 to 1931<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Up in this high air you breathed easily, drawing<br />in vital assurance and lightness of heart.<br />In the highlands you woke up in the morning<br />and thought: Here I am, where I ought to be.<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Isak Dinesen</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > <span> from Out of Africa</span></span></div></div><br />Although Karen Blixen came from a family of wealth and luxury her personal life was full of tragedy. She was born, Karen Dinesen, in 1885 fifteen miles north of Copenhagen in Rungstedlund, Denmark on her family’s spacious estate. Her father, Wilhelm Dinesen, fought in the Prusso-Danish war in 1864 and had an adventuresome spirit and talent for story-telling. At one point in his life he even lived for two years in the United States among Native American tribes. However, in 1895, when Karen was just ten years old, her father hung himself and left his wife to raise the five children alone. Although she didn’t know her father well, Karen claimed that she identified with his sense of exploration.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMzVp24Qm-b8XDo56oFSUfTtnxovG_edaYDnhGxVSGi-UjyX6r2RovoRntyVwNHVQW6GJO71Um2HfXVgwD12iD0fgW7a-bsxr62yiyewS502dcUowjJNTzH5PlqTxhT3ympth/s1600-h/karen+%26+lions.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMzVp24Qm-b8XDo56oFSUfTtnxovG_edaYDnhGxVSGi-UjyX6r2RovoRntyVwNHVQW6GJO71Um2HfXVgwD12iD0fgW7a-bsxr62yiyewS502dcUowjJNTzH5PlqTxhT3ympth/s400/karen+%26+lions.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102136757512113762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Karen Blixen posing after killing two lions on safari</span><br /></div><br />In December of 1913, Karen’s life changed dramatically when she left the shelter of her childhood home and set out on her journey to British East Africa, now the Republic of Kenya. She married her Swedish cousin Baron Bror von Blixen-Finecke at a ceremony in Mombasa and in 1916 bought a plantation and began the Karen Coffee Company, just outside Nairobi, in the Ngong Hills.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZC0zxrtiPNJVdlU-yM8guyyYzQqrp2nhQtF4OGrda4k0dDEdtkpyRSZpF0wRakGcg-qE_EDVu7aWaP93jKhSdv-0x-Y5Nn8qcBLhqNrs_QOGIKS3E1AVy9TzQYjfxmrAAsO6/s1600-h/Bror.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZC0zxrtiPNJVdlU-yM8guyyYzQqrp2nhQtF4OGrda4k0dDEdtkpyRSZpF0wRakGcg-qE_EDVu7aWaP93jKhSdv-0x-Y5Nn8qcBLhqNrs_QOGIKS3E1AVy9TzQYjfxmrAAsO6/s400/Bror.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103140757657161442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Baron Bror von Blixen-Finecke</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Here at long last one was in a position not to give a damn for all conventions, here was a new kind of freedom which until then one had only found in dreams."</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span>Karen Blixen, of her years in Africa <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"></span></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Karen was only 28 years old, her husband 27, and both had great expectations of their lives as settlers in Africa, but soon it proved to be more difficult than they imagined. August of their first year, World War I broke out and spread to East Africa. Battles between the British and the Germans led to a shortage of workers and supplies for the plantation. To make matters worse, East Africa was experiencing a three-year drought and in 1917 the British banned the import of coffee.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszyiH5TUvW84ptrYXqk_dRHCBrslFB2OcCXdojZgQDrY7wOqIFYZIMvnA0PDfuFiEoXhfx7Bi4E04b34Ku-lN3J84rZ6sjuTjpk_EgZ-5ogMud4Y5rjQBzH-aNjJaMsEcQR_a/s1600-h/Karen+and+Denys.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszyiH5TUvW84ptrYXqk_dRHCBrslFB2OcCXdojZgQDrY7wOqIFYZIMvnA0PDfuFiEoXhfx7Bi4E04b34Ku-lN3J84rZ6sjuTjpk_EgZ-5ogMud4Y5rjQBzH-aNjJaMsEcQR_a/s400/Karen+and+Denys.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103138915116191426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Karen Blixen and Denys Finch-Hatton</span><br /></div><br />Meanwhile, Karen and her husband had many personal struggles in their dream of starting a family in Africa. Only a few months after their marriage, Karen became ill and was diagnosed with syphilis. She had to travel back to Denmark for treatment by a specialist, but was plagued with having attacks of intense pain for the rest of her life. The cause of the disease was never determined, but it was known that her husband had a reputation for being a popular and well-liked by many women. The struggles continued and after their marriage broke down in 1918, she began a secret love affair with the British Denys Finch-Hatton, who was an officer in the army, a pilot, a safari guide, and a big game hunter in Africa.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRZAAIdvj6nuWvYAebodzyqE_pehuvVFuRViaCIVOKgYqltsNhkeBvfdcBCFT3K6jLiRx6-LuLOI_lZvl4KdMQZKXipNGQs8d1XtnSh5v7DOyfkxVhGd_yqMNHcWXOFCVt2Co/s1600-h/Denys+and+plane.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRZAAIdvj6nuWvYAebodzyqE_pehuvVFuRViaCIVOKgYqltsNhkeBvfdcBCFT3K6jLiRx6-LuLOI_lZvl4KdMQZKXipNGQs8d1XtnSh5v7DOyfkxVhGd_yqMNHcWXOFCVt2Co/s400/Denys+and+plane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103140074757361362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Denys Finch-Hatton with his private plane<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"What is man, when you come to think upon him, but a minutely set, ingenious machine for turning, with infinite artfulness, the red wine of Shiraz into urine?"</span></span><br /></div> <span style="font-size:130%;">Isak Dinesen</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > <span> from</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;"> Seven Gothic Tales</span></span><br /></div><br />Karen and her husband divorced in 1921. She ran the plantation by herself until 1931, which was very uncommon at that time for a woman to do, but due to a struggling crop, mismanagement, drought, and the falling price of coffee, the farm ran into debt and was sold at auction. Karen left Africa and returned to her family’s home in Denmark. But only a few months before her departure, Denys was killed in a plane crash on one of his routine flights to Tsavo National Park. He was buried at the foot of the Ngong Hills.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZzeS77Qk3h8l_6o60g78PoRiGN9VmlK1noVHZQZzY6HgN_Km1qfFOq3To0Y2JmirJVO4khg3jzOHwVxPpYAYig9WLPUbzryoazD8PfFuH6uKYQBcY1cwmai9GnWGcdDZ0jQZ/s1600-h/painting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZzeS77Qk3h8l_6o60g78PoRiGN9VmlK1noVHZQZzY6HgN_Km1qfFOq3To0Y2JmirJVO4khg3jzOHwVxPpYAYig9WLPUbzryoazD8PfFuH6uKYQBcY1cwmai9GnWGcdDZ0jQZ/s400/painting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102139961557716626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Karen Blixen's painting of a young girl from the Kikuyu tribe</span><br /></div><br />While on the farm, Karen expressed her interest in the arts. She painted a number of portraits and started to write the first of her many books, <span style="font-style: italic;">Seven Gothic Tales</span>, but when she returned home, she began work on her famous memoir of her years in Africa. <span style="font-style: italic;">Out of Africa</span> was first published in Denmark in 1937, under her pen name, Isak Dinesen. Her memoir is considered by many to be a masterpiece. It is considered to be one of the most perfect records of early European ventures in Africa. In 1954 she was nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature, but was passed over in favor of Ernest Hemingway. The book was adapted into an Oscar-winning film, starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford in 1985.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7-BoBV8ykrRecb_yyVwPIoTmCEfkGyEx30mRXIk9U5UXSaifILEthpKRN2ZD_q3m3Kww0WX1oXjWBO7UYWCW8fins7LZwvR1pQBKvC6Epo3Rv5ZmSr3XFCRhQBoX25OT-_l8r/s1600-h/karen+and+staff.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7-BoBV8ykrRecb_yyVwPIoTmCEfkGyEx30mRXIk9U5UXSaifILEthpKRN2ZD_q3m3Kww0WX1oXjWBO7UYWCW8fins7LZwvR1pQBKvC6Epo3Rv5ZmSr3XFCRhQBoX25OT-_l8r/s400/karen+and+staff.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102137878498578034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Karen Blixen and her staff at the Karen Coffee Company<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"White people, who for a long time live alone with Natives, get into the habit of saying what they mean, because they have no reason or opportunity for dissimulation, and when they meet again their conversation keeps the Native tone." </span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;">Isak Dinesen</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" > <span><span style="font-size:130%;"> from Out of Africa</span><br /><br /></span></span></div>Karen has been criticized for some of her views of the African natives. Early settlers saw her as a friend to the natives while others saw her depiction of them as her “obligation” to be aristocratic and condescending. This attitude produced a conflicting opinion of her work and personal character in <span style="font-style: italic;">Out of Africa</span>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOJnhHzEEA51VbtLv_dHLOZh0u3B6YT17h8ZSC970wcfIcYm_2hndt9xhfrCL-ZIBK_-ldEtNhJjgGd5t8SUCbzI3Xx3k9s65E9dOg7LT2DrCNFlZifyq2SG7qYlNpZQK41xqF/s1600-h/denmark+house.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOJnhHzEEA51VbtLv_dHLOZh0u3B6YT17h8ZSC970wcfIcYm_2hndt9xhfrCL-ZIBK_-ldEtNhJjgGd5t8SUCbzI3Xx3k9s65E9dOg7LT2DrCNFlZifyq2SG7qYlNpZQK41xqF/s400/denmark+house.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103151005449129714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Karen Blixen's home in Rungstedlund, Denmark</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4D8b70WJ5dHUiGsf3iSMFGxb9VdtHNEgJVhVP622jo2Car69ni_VzIwHKxLDrLHfVFH6jG2YiGleEPmposyQFd3dFjSbF8qu0-t4yz2hU7bSb9-0Ui5m38tp9Q5ccSEN6VaR-/s1600-h/gravestone.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4D8b70WJ5dHUiGsf3iSMFGxb9VdtHNEgJVhVP622jo2Car69ni_VzIwHKxLDrLHfVFH6jG2YiGleEPmposyQFd3dFjSbF8qu0-t4yz2hU7bSb9-0Ui5m38tp9Q5ccSEN6VaR-/s400/gravestone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102135580691074626" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Karen Blixen's final resting place at her home in Denmark</span><br /></div><br />She continued to write and publish books from her home in Denmark and even made several radio broadcasts. In the 1950s her health began to worsen quickly and 1955 she had a third of her stomach removed due to an ulcer. Unable to eat, Karen Blixen died of malnutrition at her home in 1962, at the age of 77. Her last request was to be buried under a large beech tree at the foot of Ewald’s Hill at her family’s home in Rungstedlund.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com86tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-41230945513902769482007-08-19T19:10:00.000+03:002007-08-23T08:15:17.613+03:00David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYF21PoLTTpPPdghujyHJX22UW8T0whr-L2VXkDrY5TslFQtGTN4tNyYhRnmu3CaljMV9tx9054dSSRzqE6BrXRHoLjtmI2ThX9wA3N_rtUIi_BzgEyfrbofef3DIXP-iiHL84/s1600-h/Elephants&I.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYF21PoLTTpPPdghujyHJX22UW8T0whr-L2VXkDrY5TslFQtGTN4tNyYhRnmu3CaljMV9tx9054dSSRzqE6BrXRHoLjtmI2ThX9wA3N_rtUIi_BzgEyfrbofef3DIXP-iiHL84/s400/Elephants&I.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100446975643946434" border="0" /></a>Just next to the Nairobi National Park is a nonprofit conservation trust which was established in 1977, shortly after the death of David Sheldrick. He and his wife, Daphne, were the first to use techniques of raising orphaned black rhinos and elephants, whose parents were killed due to poaching, in order to reintroduce them back into the wild. Of these animals, the elephants seem to get the most attention. It is for this reason that many refer to this wildlife trust as simply the Elephant Orphanage. For a donation of 300 Kenyan shillings patrons can come to view baby elephants being fed, playing soccer, and even receiving a mud bath from 11AM to Noon.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDL9s5ugkjeIdZX0fhpd-rYUv0zZtDOu2HObFoX5_9nN8Dapsh9od1RFSHaKHvyQv9PYIosz951apc68FaB4qaE9SUpYfH8TYMDTzT6vLEWxTfzyP9kt9GtOUiaqTWF2h5ayS1/s1600-h/ElephantFeed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDL9s5ugkjeIdZX0fhpd-rYUv0zZtDOu2HObFoX5_9nN8Dapsh9od1RFSHaKHvyQv9PYIosz951apc68FaB4qaE9SUpYfH8TYMDTzT6vLEWxTfzyP9kt9GtOUiaqTWF2h5ayS1/s400/ElephantFeed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100446687881137586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A baby elephant drinking milk</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0DmA0kKVUc6LI672N6fSEceGehv0yXZQfW-MUc7dtEQdsuAc2KAEENW83VBXOBMlTy2PNtmchlXp5TbLXpzsu5Rulnpef957Phyphenhyphen48mi3qFF2iMz7LMz93_c-SXgx-Lg52Pk0z/s1600-h/ElephantEatingLeaves.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0DmA0kKVUc6LI672N6fSEceGehv0yXZQfW-MUc7dtEQdsuAc2KAEENW83VBXOBMlTy2PNtmchlXp5TbLXpzsu5Rulnpef957Phyphenhyphen48mi3qFF2iMz7LMz93_c-SXgx-Lg52Pk0z/s400/ElephantEatingLeaves.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100446181074996642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Eating leaves from a tree branch<br /></span></div><br />As it was with the Giraffe Centre, it was possible to get so remarkably close to the baby elephants that I could even touch them. All that separated me from them was a small yellow rope about four feet high. We were all advised to watch our toes if an elephant walked by. Although they were still young, a baby elephant can weigh over 350 lbs!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Ng-K6W2FzGH9B9yKhgLJlg_PsKLpHQxPrNywRoR3uEQYVouQv6Go_RfmH9en7kaeaIjqLbXla-ALDz0KSuSKPX0ttCiIIXOAvuOCphTcSdl9r-FWoCUoEeFPdjUa7i4u_ppI/s1600-h/babyelephant.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Ng-K6W2FzGH9B9yKhgLJlg_PsKLpHQxPrNywRoR3uEQYVouQv6Go_RfmH9en7kaeaIjqLbXla-ALDz0KSuSKPX0ttCiIIXOAvuOCphTcSdl9r-FWoCUoEeFPdjUa7i4u_ppI/s400/babyelephant.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100535061128220162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A baby elephant fanning it's ears</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdJzvKHPz0NcWlhKfRjO8QUZZ04vvaMAQhGke6fi4L_zTCT-VXAJz1gsOSuav-6ZYGIV4tjLuwb732Q3vAMS2f48qcdxvSjEdjadiIGc43JomW-a5VKhXOLMdest_2cYwKVaOT/s1600-h/ElephantsPlaying2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdJzvKHPz0NcWlhKfRjO8QUZZ04vvaMAQhGke6fi4L_zTCT-VXAJz1gsOSuav-6ZYGIV4tjLuwb732Q3vAMS2f48qcdxvSjEdjadiIGc43JomW-a5VKhXOLMdest_2cYwKVaOT/s400/ElephantsPlaying2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100532552867319282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Elephants playing soccer</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVoyilL2E3f1NmX4OakqK5qsO3AmR3_F5qSSm1A0fc7XVSmgQ7XHyuQ4RNliygEwu65tzNINo0Pws0rRh5EqFRcf44_fGffdqsKME7-xZerIlZzkemcd6Qyt8OUmx7TKUWCavv/s1600-h/ElephantSoccer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVoyilL2E3f1NmX4OakqK5qsO3AmR3_F5qSSm1A0fc7XVSmgQ7XHyuQ4RNliygEwu65tzNINo0Pws0rRh5EqFRcf44_fGffdqsKME7-xZerIlZzkemcd6Qyt8OUmx7TKUWCavv/s400/ElephantSoccer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100447276291657170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> Elephants are serious athletes!</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Interesting Elephant Facts</span><br /><ul><li>An African elephant is larger than an Asian elephant and has enormous Africa shaped ears.</li><li>The largest African elephant recorded weighed over nine tons and stood more than twelve feet high at the shoulder. </li><li>Elephant trunks can get very heavy. It is not uncommon to see elephants resting them over a tusk! </li><li>Elephants don't drink with their trunks, but use them as "tools" to drink with. This is accomplished by filling the trunk with water and then using it as a hose to pour it into the elephant's mouth. </li><li>Elephants cry, play, have incredible memories, and laugh! </li><li>Elephants grieve at a loss of a stillborn baby, a family member, and in many cases other elephants. </li><li>Most of the communication between elephants cannot be heard by humans.</li><li>An elephant’s trunk is boneless and composed of 40,000 muscles.</li><li>An elephant’s trunk is powerful enough to kill a lion with a single swipe, yet the finger-like lobes at the end are adept enough to pluck a feather from the ground. </li><li>An elephants ears are packed with blood vessels, and when flapped, they quickly lower the animal’s body temperature. </li><li>An elephant can charge at more than 25 miles per hour.</li><li>An elephant has six sets of teeth, each replacing the next over it’s lifetime.</li><li>An adult elephant eats over 200lbs. of food per day.<br /></li><li>When an elephant begins to lose it’s last set of teeth it starves to death. </li></ul>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-50135982727891051912007-08-17T23:56:00.000+03:002007-08-18T00:44:47.561+03:00Lang’ata Giraffe Centre<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipkgnwbi9VuBO-JI7blFqYFtX1ogezKr3DtmII3ucuQO5Cq20OiCLheT65IJlC-FP4zJw72nZEgZc7JhGGFv733fj7vGlXsDlydoUQvolxmaYQ_8I8mH8PoV8_apT4ShvSqIdA/s1600-h/Feeding+Mr.+Giraffe.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipkgnwbi9VuBO-JI7blFqYFtX1ogezKr3DtmII3ucuQO5Cq20OiCLheT65IJlC-FP4zJw72nZEgZc7JhGGFv733fj7vGlXsDlydoUQvolxmaYQ_8I8mH8PoV8_apT4ShvSqIdA/s400/Feeding+Mr.+Giraffe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099782977994951954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Feeding Mr. Giraffe</span><br /></div><br />During my parent's visit we had the opportunity to visit the Lang’ata Giraffe Centre. The Centre allows patrons to get up close and personal and even kiss (sorry no pictures) the Rothschild giraffe. Although some come just to observe, visitors from all over the world get a unique experience when they hand-feed the world’s tallest species. While there are two other sub-species of giraffes, the Reticulated Giraffe and the Maasai Giraffe, it is the Rothschild Giraffe that is known for it’s lack of spots on it’s legs and so it appears as if it’s wearing four very large white “socks.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKilFcrTwfO_xYRgHrKTVwtWF1kMoHxpJn6UPzIZSbZ487mhPgPvo_e1NLZXUQaHbYif787MEZoVmjuLxS0-tdbLfYDl2fe7zg0m6aAivKS2uIpZ7l1OdTSuWTlBF1GcDqJ81y/s1600-h/Giraffe2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKilFcrTwfO_xYRgHrKTVwtWF1kMoHxpJn6UPzIZSbZ487mhPgPvo_e1NLZXUQaHbYif787MEZoVmjuLxS0-tdbLfYDl2fe7zg0m6aAivKS2uIpZ7l1OdTSuWTlBF1GcDqJ81y/s400/Giraffe2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099784627262393682" border="0" /></a>You truly have not seen a giraffe until you have feed one by hand! Their heads are enormous, their very long tongues are like sand paper, and their saliva is gooey and stinky. But it was only after I had washed my hands with hand sanitizer that the guide explained that the giraffe is immune from many poisonous plants by it’s naturally antibiotic saliva! They are no doubt some of the world's most amazing creatures.<br /><br />I am recalling a joke from my childhood.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Q. </span>What is worse than a giraffe with a sore throat?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A. </span>A centipede with sore feet.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQy0wgHfe9iTLRinXoH8nOWLlMt2rfD3m5EE5_6ykpg4ZDQV_86ARCQ1Z_fMt61RNuMT5VQOjyy1z-8IbCbmArk6qKWN9ivkt2VjdDOpCQcHAIl1XS5TVAYN5cxUMvnJibzKE/s1600-h/Giraffe3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQy0wgHfe9iTLRinXoH8nOWLlMt2rfD3m5EE5_6ykpg4ZDQV_86ARCQ1Z_fMt61RNuMT5VQOjyy1z-8IbCbmArk6qKWN9ivkt2VjdDOpCQcHAIl1XS5TVAYN5cxUMvnJibzKE/s400/Giraffe3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099783274347695394" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQdI4A-MudPQ3nO_-koAFmKuORZ_ilVFsneZEj7Fm3Pfla5Di0qjxMYAl3-dWjmIQoejgBo2n1VX83Gbabi6M6F_2zT3_cHnzpRxCap10d-qzdPiA-tn5wpMgGFzHij0EJn2pD/s1600-h/Giraffe8.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQdI4A-MudPQ3nO_-koAFmKuORZ_ilVFsneZEj7Fm3Pfla5Di0qjxMYAl3-dWjmIQoejgBo2n1VX83Gbabi6M6F_2zT3_cHnzpRxCap10d-qzdPiA-tn5wpMgGFzHij0EJn2pD/s400/Giraffe8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099783549225602354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">HISTORY</span><br /><br />The Giraffe Centre, which is located in Lang’ata, a suburb of Nairobi, was established by the African Fund for Endangered Wildlife (AFEW, Kenya). This organization was founded in 1979 by Jock Leslie-Melvile, a Kenyan of British decent, to protect the endangered Rothschild giraffe and also provide education on the importance of conservation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUZiZU-F1ZyaI_7MBEZEI8Hbw9WsOxLN4A4Tjky7QyAf5AWjYz1fMhMQOxRIyA6ytkBYGNezW3xd5oErcayxhs7FKLB2tEDWbCz4GwBVmQxptN5GTfroXzGuzjr5Zb_j599Q1/s1600-h/Giraffe7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUZiZU-F1ZyaI_7MBEZEI8Hbw9WsOxLN4A4Tjky7QyAf5AWjYz1fMhMQOxRIyA6ytkBYGNezW3xd5oErcayxhs7FKLB2tEDWbCz4GwBVmQxptN5GTfroXzGuzjr5Zb_j599Q1/s400/Giraffe7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099783918592789826" border="0" /></a><br />Prior to the establishment of the AFEW, Betty Leslie-Melvile, American wife to Jock, discovered that there were only 120 Rothschild giraffes left in Western Kenya. The giraffes were living in an area of 18,000 acres that was scheduled for subdivision and resettlement. She began to rescue these few remaining animals by transporting them to their property in Lang’ata. Betty became the founder of the AFEW, USA. This organization was able to save five more groups of giraffes by moving them to safer areas of the country. Due to their efforts, there are now over 300 Rothschild giraffes living and breeding well in different areas all over Kenya.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-76124793570130106582007-08-16T00:42:00.001+03:002007-08-17T14:06:02.315+03:00Parent's Visit to Kenya<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFc-r3dvjy3hv1I3_zQ3yQau75VSOOaD6rXSyNvKuPAyxF00UkhKVLsae_PBH4qCdNAh_RO5_ZPR6QtZL_GbvwLkfJbjMk6xrXh0WlXxiwB3_goFiGxe16_Aah8IboiuDqy5Jq/s1600-h/Parents+Arrival.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFc-r3dvjy3hv1I3_zQ3yQau75VSOOaD6rXSyNvKuPAyxF00UkhKVLsae_PBH4qCdNAh_RO5_ZPR6QtZL_GbvwLkfJbjMk6xrXh0WlXxiwB3_goFiGxe16_Aah8IboiuDqy5Jq/s400/Parents+Arrival.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099052245148615154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mom and Dad arrive at the airport</span><br /></div><br />I haven’t had much time to write lately because for the past two weeks I was very fortunate to have my parents come for a visit. They came to see where I live and the work I am doing. To become witnesses to the poverty and illness that is a stark reality in this country. But also to enjoy the simple beauty that is Kenya.<br /><br />I took the night bus from Malava to Nairobi the night before we met and checked us into the Flora Hostel. The Flora Hostel is a special hostel in Nairobi run by the Consolata Sisters and is reserved for missionaries and their families. Compared to many other places in Nairobi it is clean, safe, quiet, and reasonably priced. An added bonus was that all meals were included and the triple occupancy room that we stayed in was housed in it’s own separate cottage out back of the main building. There was also an on-site chapel that offered daily Liturgy of the Eucharist.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5SCVdGojBjp_7aAwvnWGEKDoHyfgvB1TjLpOZlqVSwMxkQXxvCY6hfHeWMbS_fSrKnMWjshe78RxaHK_ohd8vy4DpHiuTy41yDX0DtCSHKklbkfVj4JQIGy_pxDH9DPFvhPAD/s1600-h/cottage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5SCVdGojBjp_7aAwvnWGEKDoHyfgvB1TjLpOZlqVSwMxkQXxvCY6hfHeWMbS_fSrKnMWjshe78RxaHK_ohd8vy4DpHiuTy41yDX0DtCSHKklbkfVj4JQIGy_pxDH9DPFvhPAD/s400/cottage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099049977405882818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The cottage at Flora Hoste</span>l<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_vbb7gsCQtzMEnyjv_j-LMKci4PbkKp4i7mJ5SsACeQXvR1BvS1RQNGHko2pxoJXVmIBELzrorgl6GFDMJjkX1e5_RoRARqKa_lQWtXlZWOmDc98iZtQYct_ndHLhYnPZCZTN/s1600-h/Room+4NC.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_vbb7gsCQtzMEnyjv_j-LMKci4PbkKp4i7mJ5SsACeQXvR1BvS1RQNGHko2pxoJXVmIBELzrorgl6GFDMJjkX1e5_RoRARqKa_lQWtXlZWOmDc98iZtQYct_ndHLhYnPZCZTN/s400/Room+4NC.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099049646693401010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Cosy room 4NC at the Flora Hostel</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DErX2fNE0GAT0ro2_eDSPevtfbEoWdAXLbFxzjTNhC4N7DYZ30EZJIOB_oDHpimJ-hu5zqd23uok6ZiraRq8ZbdioamBZMXGIn1pBF_xumatSnPflC6KRtH7L-LNRcVdFsJP/s1600-h/chapel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DErX2fNE0GAT0ro2_eDSPevtfbEoWdAXLbFxzjTNhC4N7DYZ30EZJIOB_oDHpimJ-hu5zqd23uok6ZiraRq8ZbdioamBZMXGIn1pBF_xumatSnPflC6KRtH7L-LNRcVdFsJP/s400/chapel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099064807927955970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The chapel at Flora Hostel</span><br /></div><br />Having never been to Kenya and not knowing if they would ever get the chance to come again they wanted to see as much of the country as possible. So when they arrived at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi on Wednesday, August 25 I became their tour guide that would take on the impossible task of showing them the country of Kenya in just two weeks.<br /><br />After spending seven months out in Malava, where the kitchen isn’t far from the slaughterhouse, the showers are from a cold bucket of rain water, and a white person is unheard of, it was good to get back to the city, even if for only a short while. I checked into room number 4NC and while I waited for my parents flight to come in I enjoyed a long, hot shower, ate meatballs and cold potato salad, and even talked to a few white people from Australia.<br /><br />I had been planning for my parent’s visit for several weeks, but even still it didn’t seem completely real. I waited for over an hour for them to come through the baggage claim at the airport, but when they finally emerged from the exit doors I realized it was true. My parents had actually come to Kenya. Although at first I looked on in disbelief, it was good to finally see a familiar face. We greeted and hugged and then headed for the Sister’s convent in Racecourse, Nairobi. I introduced them to the Sisters and after a late supper the three of us slept easy in our beds at the hostel. We would need all of the rest we could get for the following day and the weeks to come. The schedule was extremely tight and there was a lot to see and do.<br /><br />In the time that they were here, we feed giraffes by hand at the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Lang’ata Giraffe Centre</span>, we saw baby elephants being feed and got to pet a cheetah at the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Animal Orphanage</span>. We saw traditional African dancing and mud huts at the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bomas of Kenya</span> and visited the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Karen Blixen Museum</span>. We visited Arielle and Sandy and the girls and <span style="font-weight: bold;">Rescue Dada</span>. We crossed over the equator through the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Great Rift Valley</span> and came to Malava to attend the Kenyan Mass at <span style="font-weight: bold;">St. Teresa Parish</span>. We visited the <span style="font-weight: bold;">St. Julie Centre for Disabled Children</span> and were invited to eat authentic Kenyan food with Tom, a member of the staff. We took boda bodas, or bicycle taxis, to <span style="font-weight: bold;">Webuye Falls</span> and took a tuk-tuk, or a three-wheeled motorized vehicle to <span style="font-weight: bold;">Lake Victoria</span> to see hippos in the town of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Kisumu</span>. We took a trip to the coast of the Indian Ocean, to the island town of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Lamu</span>, the oldest town in Kenya, and caught a glimpse of Mount Kilimanjaro on the flight back to Nairobi. But the ultimate experience had to be seeing the Big Five game animals on the four-day safari at the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Maasai Mara National Reserve</span> and seeing thousands upon thousands of wild flamingoes at <span style="font-weight: bold;">Lake Nakuru National Park</span>.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQGavAWmbVe0Hy93L_Dp5PIYhqughIW3NZl_ujo_6vTq0of_zg1W12ALc-Bs5apKK0N-o0Q0abD_gpk7Mtoy6Ha_BSogPVHa0VQSRncRCkAcwixCzGzz2DiVxMjEInsExZxit/s1600-h/giraffe+centre.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQGavAWmbVe0Hy93L_Dp5PIYhqughIW3NZl_ujo_6vTq0of_zg1W12ALc-Bs5apKK0N-o0Q0abD_gpk7Mtoy6Ha_BSogPVHa0VQSRncRCkAcwixCzGzz2DiVxMjEInsExZxit/s400/giraffe+centre.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099065443583115794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Giraffe and I at the Giraffe Centre<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0b2xt9DgTdGQ7qVQeHq8DfEU7zdRB4X3d6hyAFCpd3HghY3-z6q_6jlszN8dOjlLXsmGaQDU3dkd-XyNtCU5DUvGyBScwXfst1SK6Fxs3bA2oPxfEzAFIyuJ24W5VH7TGDTw/s1600-h/cheetah.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0b2xt9DgTdGQ7qVQeHq8DfEU7zdRB4X3d6hyAFCpd3HghY3-z6q_6jlszN8dOjlLXsmGaQDU3dkd-XyNtCU5DUvGyBScwXfst1SK6Fxs3bA2oPxfEzAFIyuJ24W5VH7TGDTw/s400/cheetah.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099047138432500034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Cheetah and I at the Animal Orphanage</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXP2kIrQPidJXphhVfx1aBPjv6osDu-7HM6Hv4cyhMMl6zAByQgZQfZUzsCfJF97rzzNgrFCAHdhKpIWJucVabQxOBvKCzRPlCP_ic12sgprz-KLGFw1HmvJR5nfw4vsM2Z8ou/s1600-h/dancers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXP2kIrQPidJXphhVfx1aBPjv6osDu-7HM6Hv4cyhMMl6zAByQgZQfZUzsCfJF97rzzNgrFCAHdhKpIWJucVabQxOBvKCzRPlCP_ic12sgprz-KLGFw1HmvJR5nfw4vsM2Z8ou/s400/dancers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099048031785697650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Traditional African dancers at the </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Bomas of Kenya<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVIEOylqMQZmHGw31LhhYWOuWuYAK8TGNsW_vMW8mnS1Bm53UE-nNxaAfw38K1oQH8qxYeZsgz-_k6hp7NYiwoFlK2d1AEoqj_cj9VqoH3CmFQd3KquLmzqhcE_HRyiNVXSRq/s1600-h/grandmas+hut.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVIEOylqMQZmHGw31LhhYWOuWuYAK8TGNsW_vMW8mnS1Bm53UE-nNxaAfw38K1oQH8qxYeZsgz-_k6hp7NYiwoFlK2d1AEoqj_cj9VqoH3CmFQd3KquLmzqhcE_HRyiNVXSRq/s400/grandmas+hut.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099048843534516626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Now officially a grandmother, Mom gets her own hut at the </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Bomas</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-2BJwA7AjY4FK3XRz3w5_pFbAHZ5PGwdHm1j0tAzfGNxa_anag3uk1X0mNAzoUlRl2wy_JYlFm7h0XNVe42CPWAU15kuc41Xr_weQreiORHKq4uQU25WVDYk0j3fFG4DfXPB/s1600-h/equator.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-2BJwA7AjY4FK3XRz3w5_pFbAHZ5PGwdHm1j0tAzfGNxa_anag3uk1X0mNAzoUlRl2wy_JYlFm7h0XNVe42CPWAU15kuc41Xr_weQreiORHKq4uQU25WVDYk0j3fFG4DfXPB/s400/equator.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099048336728375682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Tim at the </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Equator</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> Crossing through the Great Rift Valley</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0asqIecG9BSZxIKSGPowkTkLUe2sDJBkwLQxb1epcb2vJhvpGaNuTQtFM_2kwj4b88t0BIw-cbrbaMqit2qW3sFDHVeHtqzyNqaltGCACTeSs97O1HW782FKlez3U91cpT27/s1600-h/bodaboda.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0asqIecG9BSZxIKSGPowkTkLUe2sDJBkwLQxb1epcb2vJhvpGaNuTQtFM_2kwj4b88t0BIw-cbrbaMqit2qW3sFDHVeHtqzyNqaltGCACTeSs97O1HW782FKlez3U91cpT27/s400/bodaboda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099046734705574194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Dad and Mom on bicycle taxis called boda bodas to We</span>buye Falls<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDyo8F8rvPKuTjBUrNNAzbmpiHIF8SqQxszwh3OBzWzIEhfwk-fgC8xDCdWISQmq3rIqjRHnuR5E15yX6FfVtDGaDemvAUqh4slAPgYpXxLbHu9am_yyz-y1bzFTOLlKNjWVT/s1600-h/hut.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDyo8F8rvPKuTjBUrNNAzbmpiHIF8SqQxszwh3OBzWzIEhfwk-fgC8xDCdWISQmq3rIqjRHnuR5E15yX6FfVtDGaDemvAUqh4slAPgYpXxLbHu9am_yyz-y1bzFTOLlKNjWVT/s400/hut.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099049191426867618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Tom's brother, Tom, Mom, and Dad</span><br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2v8xWVNmLJfpnl8LgkXaaYPJyaFJJSSXfpMRynB0kro67prr2tIbYOVyQBiv4xz9ScwxXOU0rNbzCsz4SJQUa0Z153cF8AUsFZlz6-AagRgtyEeN7l9Us2M62L7KTLN_rApss/s1600-h/Lamu1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2v8xWVNmLJfpnl8LgkXaaYPJyaFJJSSXfpMRynB0kro67prr2tIbYOVyQBiv4xz9ScwxXOU0rNbzCsz4SJQUa0Z153cF8AUsFZlz6-AagRgtyEeN7l9Us2M62L7KTLN_rApss/s400/Lamu1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099051875781427682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The beautiful Island of Lamu on the coast of the Indian Ocean</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrX1h7CP4R4mRvQps0KOnKMG49prQhzd4DmiDiLHPCRu58xnVDPY9Jz3wNjI5JQ0u_eWChk4wAKlETZiMw3Zj8EAg1x_bi2fDurupmdV1Ddlr15636KCQUxtI0QGPMUkykANq/s1600-h/dadonbeach.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrX1h7CP4R4mRvQps0KOnKMG49prQhzd4DmiDiLHPCRu58xnVDPY9Jz3wNjI5JQ0u_eWChk4wAKlETZiMw3Zj8EAg1x_bi2fDurupmdV1Ddlr15636KCQUxtI0QGPMUkykANq/s400/dadonbeach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099047692483281250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Dad on the beach in Lamu </span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRgvaAaMaSbvzGI0fHMo3OGnNQ7JFln24QVMrwHCHg4WSau5UXMDnM-P-C3VBJAY2MIHh-0OO9GwMwaNZR8-aAYejX7dpAFfIgeJ_08Ed3NVyMPbgVJ-oNU4M0KRpEB9eU5CT_/s1600-h/Kilimanjaro.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRgvaAaMaSbvzGI0fHMo3OGnNQ7JFln24QVMrwHCHg4WSau5UXMDnM-P-C3VBJAY2MIHh-0OO9GwMwaNZR8-aAYejX7dpAFfIgeJ_08Ed3NVyMPbgVJ-oNU4M0KRpEB9eU5CT_/s400/Kilimanjaro.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099050230808953298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">A glimpse of Mt. Kilimanjaro on the flight from Lamu back to Nairobi<br /><br /><br /></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35573981.post-90511716186031950532007-07-15T23:47:00.000+03:002007-07-19T18:55:52.456+03:00Mass in Malava<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU2MpKwc9oFnFaJmQ4FLNzV4hF7SDJeGkvH-vCEBw4EZnz9iaN-YigYyRmv_fX6PN6TilHq8jyGKwQmTwO2C3tLUFv_Sz5Ac0-HR6yslASIhWO2dC9fF5BfKpxIz3VL9LBKZKL/s1600-h/+church+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU2MpKwc9oFnFaJmQ4FLNzV4hF7SDJeGkvH-vCEBw4EZnz9iaN-YigYyRmv_fX6PN6TilHq8jyGKwQmTwO2C3tLUFv_Sz5Ac0-HR6yslASIhWO2dC9fF5BfKpxIz3VL9LBKZKL/s400/+church+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088637255416517698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">St. Teresa Church in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Malava</span></span></span><br /></div><br />Mass on Sunday, in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Malava</span></span>, at St. Teresa Parish starts roughly at 9AM. Many parishioners come from a long distance on foot and so the Mass will not begin until most have arrived and the church is full. Luckily, I live on the parish grounds so I can usually leave the house at 9 o’clock, or even a few minutes past, and still make it on time.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPc5G8ensZwiwd8M_PEBCUdENco_n5JZ5sfLMfBm4LzUVmscmfcsKW9fTeu-fuXwh-8viZyyXPLfq2Cb-ImZzTWNt7wH7MzG0X9fFm5zR5XKI3s8iNNv875qA9HMm16fclFLf/s1600-h/crucifix3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPc5G8ensZwiwd8M_PEBCUdENco_n5JZ5sfLMfBm4LzUVmscmfcsKW9fTeu-fuXwh-8viZyyXPLfq2Cb-ImZzTWNt7wH7MzG0X9fFm5zR5XKI3s8iNNv875qA9HMm16fclFLf/s400/crucifix3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088923837109343522" border="0" /></a>Mural of St. Mary and St. John at the foot of the cross<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkYUuTfwDrkPvwkoNnDyR4nvPdl_VnmAIWJcB7_Dm1f2zlQxCKfWILK0_OKSB5i41e4RXkfOolTtYHNOogksQxE_pHnIKJlcsQP-4xo5RpvWtVIWMKHI7DvFkpjPTAV9zCla0Y/s1600-h/JesusPainting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkYUuTfwDrkPvwkoNnDyR4nvPdl_VnmAIWJcB7_Dm1f2zlQxCKfWILK0_OKSB5i41e4RXkfOolTtYHNOogksQxE_pHnIKJlcsQP-4xo5RpvWtVIWMKHI7DvFkpjPTAV9zCla0Y/s400/JesusPainting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088922711827911954" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">African Jesus shepherding his flock</span><br /></div><br />When I arrive at the church I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">genuflect and</span> look up at the crucifix hanging behind the altar and notice the African depictions of St. Mary and St. John at the foot of the cross, to the right there is also an African depiction of Jesus <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">shepherding</span> his flock. I am always aware that I will be the only white person at Mass and so I sit in the back, trying not to call attention to myself. Even still, within a minute or two the parents and children in front and on the sides of me turn around to get a look. The children stare, but when they see that I am looking back at them they smile and then hide their faces. Just before Mass begins, the church fills to capacity and many sit elbow to elbow. The choir, whose space is reserved in the first five rows, warms up by singing a couple of songs. Finally, they start a fast song that is uplifting and full of energy.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ToodmymzLJLn4tRCPSehPKBCh28HzMalOtRvMIOiubb64vnQgSZb8V0Pt1BdQ9SAAN1ubIT9dnvMK8F8Dovpaigq695EiPLS4retD7cbjg0xrr57r7XFV63lwIs4nM3in-BA/s1600-h/dancers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ToodmymzLJLn4tRCPSehPKBCh28HzMalOtRvMIOiubb64vnQgSZb8V0Pt1BdQ9SAAN1ubIT9dnvMK8F8Dovpaigq695EiPLS4retD7cbjg0xrr57r7XFV63lwIs4nM3in-BA/s400/dancers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088645012127454418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Liturgical dancers enter the church and dance up the aisle</span><br /></div><br />All rise and a long procession begins up the center aisle. At the front of the procession are the altar boys followed by two rows of liturgical dancers. These young girls dance their way up the aisle and then divide in half when they come to the front, before the altar. Father Paul, the pastor, is last in the procession. He enters the back of the church in a cloud of incense smoke.<br /><br />When Father Paul gets to the front of the church he begins the Mass in Swahili by making the sign of the cross.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Kwa</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">jina</span></span> la <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Baba</span></span>,<br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">(In the Name of the Father)</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">na</span></span> la <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Mwana</span></span>,<br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">(And of the Son)</span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">na</span></span> la <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Roho</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Mtakatifu</span></span>.”<br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">(And of the Holy Spirit)</span><br /></div><br />And all reply,<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Amina</span></span>.”</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(Amen)<br /><br /></div>From this point, most of the Mass is sung. St. Teresa Parish has an amazing and talented choir. About twenty men and women sing everything a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">cappella</span></span> with only the occasional accompaniment of a drum and tambourine. Even though I don’t understand most of the words they are singing, their passion comes through and they make the Mass come alive.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbN37M5dGQO9hrb3iFuGkzfktnNZVX23qqWA19A0bnrfd2wC4F6kj2o-gpQcAzL6Tpn1gAuvf-QOOav5k6Ug1DNuJM-vKYiney6LIXIS5FW-f6Mx5Qu-C_lghYXYBRAVAH6h0r/s1600-h/homily.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbN37M5dGQO9hrb3iFuGkzfktnNZVX23qqWA19A0bnrfd2wC4F6kj2o-gpQcAzL6Tpn1gAuvf-QOOav5k6Ug1DNuJM-vKYiney6LIXIS5FW-f6Mx5Qu-C_lghYXYBRAVAH6h0r/s400/homily.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088936984004236594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Father Paul gives one of his famous homilies</span><br /></div><br />As the readings are read in Swahili I read along with my bible in English. The Gospel is read and Father Paul begins his homily. I never understand what he is saying to the people, but he always has a funny and entertaining story to tell that is relevant to the readings. Several weeks ago, on Trinity Sunday, he had a captivated audience as he explained the Trinity using maize.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQFNt6s30VDdSxOvKUAY0yvzoUXOn1pONvUdtFr_5ul1fLYC6ixWbcUy5OY5qHWsPs20DHYHjfiCqX2ldQjX1DXBSM-ncCN6zwTVsupx2OGn0nos3J95xaHA15kYTfVVsK7ZU/s1600-h/ushers2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQFNt6s30VDdSxOvKUAY0yvzoUXOn1pONvUdtFr_5ul1fLYC6ixWbcUy5OY5qHWsPs20DHYHjfiCqX2ldQjX1DXBSM-ncCN6zwTVsupx2OGn0nos3J95xaHA15kYTfVVsK7ZU/s400/ushers2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088642748679689410" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The ushers stand in a line as "Our Lady of Perpetual Help" looks over their shoulders</span><br /></div><br />The Mass then continues as the petitions are given during the prayers of the faithful and then the collection is taken up. The collection is done differently than in the US in that the baskets stay up by the altar while ushers dismiss row by row, to come to the front. The ushers wear colored sashes with “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Malava</span></span> Catholic Parish” on them, but because they cannot read in English the lettering is always upside-down. A typical offering is between twenty and fifty shillings, which is about thirty to seventy-five cents. It’s always a struggle for me to remember to bring my money in the morning and can be embarrassing when I forget. I am assumed by all to be very wealthy and it gives a bad impression when I have nothing to give while the poor villagers are offering up all they have.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2n3E1pXGdiB2ZuNGAn482YYwEwPn5X5KTeny6STNzVXecamRNxUfx4sJl4GT1xpyhPaDThsXh7gN6huEkOlN5d_ZeNTVi58u6K-YlIkPunB5jWXhNmY3eUggG5EJ3ef3d8YtH/s1600-h/gifts3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2n3E1pXGdiB2ZuNGAn482YYwEwPn5X5KTeny6STNzVXecamRNxUfx4sJl4GT1xpyhPaDThsXh7gN6huEkOlN5d_ZeNTVi58u6K-YlIkPunB5jWXhNmY3eUggG5EJ3ef3d8YtH/s400/gifts3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088640094389900450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The gifts are brought to the altar</span><br /></div><br />When it comes time to present the gifts on the altar there are sometimes loud animal noises coming from outside the church. At Mass in the States, most of the time, the gifts are simply the bread and wine. In Kenya, the gifts are presented with another long procession that comes up the center aisle. The people dance as they carry gifts of fruit, vegetables, rice, maize, salt, sugar, eggs, soda, baking flour, and even toilet paper. Each gift is wrapped nicely in a black plastic bag. Some villagers even offer animals as gifts to place on the altar. Chickens are the most common, but there is also the occasional sheep. So that they don’t get loose in the church each animal must have it’s legs tied. This is usually done just outside of the church and the animals can be heard screaming and struggling to get free during the first part of the Mass. Two men will carry a large sheep upside by it’s legs as they bring it up the aisle. Sometimes it’s still “baa-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">ing</span></span>.” It looks just like an animal sacrifice and it makes me laugh all the time. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to take a clear picture of this happening.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9JoDWDQlmFBrv3P356JaWlGTfxkwaRtfrfRoTrIHxcxz4iC7kljyxB35i3zkGUd1viDnRBFL0yqgmNjBWxoUrKWRy5xDC29-kf0pAEhHZoXouYhlLkID8SFQ0Rhyk0aOXKOq/s1600-h/gifts2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9JoDWDQlmFBrv3P356JaWlGTfxkwaRtfrfRoTrIHxcxz4iC7kljyxB35i3zkGUd1viDnRBFL0yqgmNjBWxoUrKWRy5xDC29-kf0pAEhHZoXouYhlLkID8SFQ0Rhyk0aOXKOq/s400/gifts2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088639682073040018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Gifts at the altar</span><br /></div><br />After the gifts are brought, Father Paul consecrates the bread and wine and the choir leads in singing the “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Baba</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Yetu</span></span>” or “Our Father.” When it comes time to offer the sign of peace many children come over to where I am and are excited to shake my hand. Sometimes they just want to touch my skin to see if it feels to same as theirs. They offer the sign of peace by saying,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Amani</span></span> ya <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Bwana</span></span>”</span> (Peace of the Lord)<br />or<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Amani</span></span> ya <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Kristu</span></span>”</span> (Peace of Christ).<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCsinVolaIX8R7w2LmL-mHmCy-MdSQpLeMCc9hVxMzWrVIK20Trk2wzKy0cTHdctKpk3tLoEAPR89HRVPw1bdBH8m4fJdLlqiW1UwtFUgs-1UF0WzvoZ9mApyF6nDZniuPjLrP/s1600-h/body&blood.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCsinVolaIX8R7w2LmL-mHmCy-MdSQpLeMCc9hVxMzWrVIK20Trk2wzKy0cTHdctKpk3tLoEAPR89HRVPw1bdBH8m4fJdLlqiW1UwtFUgs-1UF0WzvoZ9mApyF6nDZniuPjLrP/s400/body&blood.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088638256143897682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Father holds up the Body and Blood of Christ</span><br /></div><br />Father Paul then holds up the Body and Blood of Christ and the parishioners come up to receive the Eucharist. Surprisingly, the same organization that is used during the collection is lost when going up to receive Communion. The line is not single file but horizontal along the altar and many come all at once and then wait in clusters to receive the host.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyveTr3STTjioL-eqNU0Vm7MdYd2cgfrORZlMziY6erAynbjI59MYqqVWBmxF19pSWRelaVcT3YQe6hW5rJNyJyd3pfGh39wk6VsmrAIOObbi18ZXRAAqXf6zaYc9j3S70xtDw/s1600-h/communion.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyveTr3STTjioL-eqNU0Vm7MdYd2cgfrORZlMziY6erAynbjI59MYqqVWBmxF19pSWRelaVcT3YQe6hW5rJNyJyd3pfGh39wk6VsmrAIOObbi18ZXRAAqXf6zaYc9j3S70xtDw/s400/communion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088638930453763186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Parishioners receive communion</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Father Paul says to each,<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Mwili</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">wa</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Kristu</span></span>”</span> (Body of Christ)<br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">And they reply<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Amina</span></span>”</span><br /></div></div><br /></div>What is somewhat surprising is that only about half of the church receives Communion. Many of the villagers were not brought up Catholic, or even Christian, and can’t receive the Eucharist because they haven’t been Baptized. All the same, they come to church to offer their prayers for the community.<br /><br />After Communion, the whole church bows as the Eucharist is placed back in the tabernacle and then all kneel as the choir leads in slowly singing a prayer of St. Ignatius <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Layola</span></span>, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Anima</span></span> Christi. The mood is very solemn and one of great reverence. It is really only at this one moment, during the Mass, that I feel one with these people. I don’t know every word that is spoken, but I understand. They are mostly the poor and uneducated, but I can see they understand. All language and cultural barriers have been broken down. Together we have all become brothers and sisters.<br /><br />All rise and Father Paul again makes the sign of the cross and then says,”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Nendeni</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">na</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">amani</span></span>”</span> (Go in peace)<br /></div><br />All reply,<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Tumshukuru</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Mungu</span></span>”</span> (Thanks be to God)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieUeh0NJR9PwCaWIvwJS1XAz8zlzM0YEFJIrOaQOpejjcrpPFf_n7Ty-5WVRdXgP4wColBEGTYpux8MG2O0RbpPr-dn8KKpSvZEocf0jPX_QcvpubDJf9Zg0Cvq0mwm_hpYO2M/s1600-h/church.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieUeh0NJR9PwCaWIvwJS1XAz8zlzM0YEFJIrOaQOpejjcrpPFf_n7Ty-5WVRdXgP4wColBEGTYpux8MG2O0RbpPr-dn8KKpSvZEocf0jPX_QcvpubDJf9Zg0Cvq0mwm_hpYO2M/s400/church.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088638655575856226" border="0" /></a><br />Our countries and cultures have many differences, but during the Mass we all become one in Christ.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7