My thougts after my Kenyan trip

The light has come upon the dark benighted way.
Dead! Dead your Majesty.
Dead, my Lords and gentlemen.
Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order.
Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts
And dying thus around us every day.
(Charles Dickens)

Time visiting welcoming faces in some far away place–the type of place seen on World Vision, was a thought provoking experience. I met so many inspiring folks who affected me with their simplicity of life.

Clinging to Michael’s legs is a half-caste toddler. He found him–unwanted by a mother who had entrusted her body to an uncaring soul –no doubt thousands of miles back in white man’s land now. Free spirited Michael loves this small outcast with all his heart and sense, with a mind that knows no bureaucratic hang ups, but simply is governed by natural reason. Michael says: “He was cute, I wanted to have him so she gave him to me.” Am I hearing right-too many questions stir in my conditioned cerebral matter, so I ask none of them. “I’m going to raise him as my own.” he continues. He has no wife, but no matter, the village is around him to help.

The neighborly woman, mother of four of her own, takes the rejected child during the day, after all, what’s one more? Michael, now able to spend his days at the beach haggling with tourists for a few shillings, can now bring food home in the evenings.

Caringly, Faith walks me down the road because I have lost my way to a village hut where I am invited for chicken dinner. Her bare callused feet make me wince. Regaining my bearings, we part ways.

Mary cooks the best bird ever to be tasted. Her grubby children, along with many of the neighboring little cherubs, sing happy songs and show me how to groove along; I taught them “Duck Duck Goose,” whereby, whoops and giggles delight all. “Show us more games,” they laugh. Hugs and broad smiles accompany farewells.

A family of eight lives in one small room– two families really, but living as one– single mums with youngsters. There are two beds, no bathroom, no taps, no light– no, just a space, cramped–not cozy. A few clothes hang on string over the bed–no drawers. Water taps and bathrooms are in the common domain for all to use.

The youngsters crash on foam mattresses borrowed from the landlord for the occasion. They enjoy the sleep over; I enjoy them, the company and the sharing of selves. I need practice cooking cornmeal, and they readily show me how. After food and social merriment, there are no knives or forks to wash, just sticky fingers and faces.

Now I miss living, sun, warmth, friendship, freedom, contributing, mosquitoes, and the Indian Ocean. Across the sea, I feel at home.

Now at home, I cross the street– public domain– to my rusty ol’ car. I hear begrudging words: “Can’t you park on your side?” “Sorry this side was full,” I plead, but my regret seems to be of little importance; my neighbor’s mind is set.

It appears values change; Is it written? Thou shalt not desire thy neighbor’s street parking by his house, or by his grass, or by his dog, or by any thing that is thy neighbor’s, and thou shalt love thy own stuff as thyself, and keep it wholly unto thyself?

Oh, to be in the land of the free!
Debbie