Thanks.

Hey folks,

Thanks for reading. It has meant a great deal that you took time to read these entries and share this journey.

Hope to see each of you soon,
-trev

Cats.

While in the Serengeti and Ngorongoro my dad and I saw tons of animals, especially the big cats. Here are some of them.
The first lion we saw. She was nursing and looked exhausted.

The only leopard we saw the whole trip. Our guide said leopards are far more dangerous than lions. If a human ever stumbles upon one there's little chance of them living to tell about it.


There were 5 of these little guys playing together. I was tempted to get out of the jeep and join them but they were using their 300 pound mother as a jungle gym.




Either this young lady was warning me with an evil eye or flirting with me with an awkward wink. It's probably the latter.

A family of 5 cheetahs were lounging by the side of the road as we left the Serengeti.


She may be tiny but she's feisty.

Reminder

My father arrives soon and I am very glad. I am glad that he will know this community, its people. He will stand in the prolonged handshakes and the steady evening winds. He will know the smell of omena, the feel of ugali rolled in his hand, the sight of stark white egrets gliding above the lake. He will hear the rains and sense their approach. He will see the sunrise for a few days and see that each is it's own wonder. He will greet the children and the old women. In his time here, he will see this life and help me remember. That is a great gift.

Much of who I am, the parts of me that are worthwhile or good, come from my father. I hope he will see those traits in me, in this place, and help me remember those too.

Glimpses.

Many women of the village are employed in some facet of the omena cycle. This women is throwing fresh omena on the nets to dry. Once finished, the womens' legs and forearms are covered in flecks of silver.



This fisherman is carrying paraffin lanterns used to catch the omena. A boat will spread up to six lanterns along the water's surface, kept afloat by wooden platforms. The light attracts the fish and then the boats encircle the omena with nets.



At around dusk the fishermen start arriving at the beach for the night's work. The long stick in the foreground is used to move the paraffin lanterns.



Kageno runs a tailoring program that acts as a business and vocational training. Salome heads both initiatives and can make anything, ANYTHING, on her manual sewing machine.



Water hyacinth have invaded the local beaches and have done serious damage to the native aquatic life. The destructive hyacinth does, however, bring some economic opportunity. About 12 people have found employment through harvesting the plant, binding it into rope, and then using that rope to make mats, rugs, and bags.


At least once a week, the mere sight of me will send a child into hysteria. Not a good kind of hysteria but the kind that you would expect if a child saw a huge, oozing monster lumbering towards them. They haven't encountered too many white people and are somewhat uncertain. While this little girl wasn't crying because of me, her bottom lip quivered a bit quicker as I approached and she toyed with the idea of running in the opposite direction. Once older, the fear turns to curiosity and if I stand long enough in one place I will feel tiny hands rubbing my bare calves - they are infatuated with leg hair. One little boy reached out and touched my shin only to grimace and recoil as if he had touched a burning coal.


Children here are thrown into independence. They'll walk to school alone at age 5. They also have a great deal of responsibility, like caring for their younger siblings. Child-headed households, where the oldest assumes the parental role, are common.


One of the local birds known as a weaver because of its intricate spherical nests.

Whoops.

I've approached learning Luo with a bit of reckless abandon. Even if I don't know exactly what to say I'll try to use whatever vocab I have to carry on some kind of exchange. There have been quite a few humorous mistakes but these three are the best so far.

I wanted to say, "Adwaro nyoyo," which means, "I want maize and beans."

What I actually said was, "Adwaro yoyo," which means, "I want to suckle."

I wanted to say, "Tedo alayo," which means, "Cook green grams."

What I actually said was, "Tedo alayo," with incorrect inflection, which means, "Cook I urinate."

I wanted to ask, "Ichiew nadhi?" which means, "How are you waking?"

What I actually asked was, "Ichew nadhi," which means, "How are you fat?"

This last slip has happened a number of times but everyone has been gracious, either because they were confused or because being called fat is not such a bad thing in this culture.


PS. You know how at big sporting events, like the opening ceremony of the Olympics, they'll show a shot of the stadium from a blimp hovering above and you'll see an infinite amount of camera flashes? Now imagine each one of those flashes is a bolt of lightening. That was something like the storm two nights ago.

The Kitchen

It is a place of creation, of expansion.

Outside of this place, women whisper greetings with bowed heads. Here, they boast of their superior strength and throw playful punches. Here are friendships forged during countless hours over many years. It holds contests and races - who can peel the most potatoes, who can fan the fire for the longest. Here are patient teachers who hover over foreign students as they clumsily chop onions and tomatoes. Women nurse and stir the soup. Men stand at the door and tread lightly within.

The kitchen is the center, the keystone, a sanctuary where friends rest and receive news, safe from the tensions of business. Cats and puppies lie beside the cooling charcoal stove and pots simmer over open flames. Hens followed by day old chicks are shooed by a straw broom. Kale, cabbage, rice, green grams, cassava, chipati, ugali; all rest in baskets or hang from the thatched ceiling. A paraffin lantern gives light once the sun has finished. The breeze clears the smoke and brings the smell of rain.

It is a place of welcome. It can generate thanksgiving or reminders of shortage. It is a sacred school where secrets are passed between generations. Here, soil, water and sun become the tie that binds.

It is a place of resolution, a kind and daily end.

Mamas

There are few moments as blissful as when I meet old women along the path and say, "Oyawore. Ichiew Nadi?" which means, "Good morning. How are you waking?" Laughing, they lunge for my hand and grip it with the strength that comes from a lifetime of manual labor. They gently slap the back of my palm and fire off Luo to test my knowledge. My understanding ends so I simply smile, relish their calluses and toothless grins.

These interactions remind me of time spent with my own grandmother, times when she spoke a different language and I could only sit and listen. In much the same way, she held my hand, patted my arm, and warmed me with her laughter.