Swallowed, stinging

Then shall be brought to pass the saying "Death is swallowed up in victory."  O Death, where is your sting? (1 Cor 15:54-55)

Our community is feeling the sting, even though we wait for the swallow of victory.

And from a source we don't usually count in our top ten Africa worries. Cancer.

As I write, two women in my age range, both former missionaries here who are wives of former Kijabe doctors, are dying of metastatic breast cancer in the US.  Both are surrounded by friends and family, both have passed beyond the possibility of anything but an 11th hour miracle to delay their final journey.  Both are women of faith who will leave behind teens and older kids who still need them, much as Betty Heron did over 12 years ago.

As I write, I know of a team of 20-30 somethings with the second diagnosis of cancer in two years.  This is a small team.  This is a relatively cancer-free age group.  Both were diagnosed because of persistent symptoms that may or may not have been related directly to the cancer, but led to life-saving investigation.  Both should recover with surgery and medical care, but not before a road already marked by suffering becomes a lot harder.  And not before the people they went to serve miss them, terribly.

As I write, a family from the other major mission hospital in Kenya holds a memorial service for their 13 month old daughter who died from a brain tumor.  She went into cardiac and respiratory arrest Tuesday night, had a CT scan revealing a large aggressive mass, and was brought in critical condition to Kijabe on Wednesday for surgery.  Her family had only arrived in Kenya five weeks earlier, a doctor dad and a mom with 3 boys and this little girl who kept vomiting.  Their eloquent journey of faith is told here:  http://www.aaroninkenya.com/.  In spite of excellent surgical and ICU care, we could not reverse the damage this tumor had already done, and she died yesterday morning.  This dad's blog response is absolutely worth reading.

That's five saints in a week, ages 13 months to 50-something, one dead, two dying, and two figuring out life with surgery and chemo and radiation and delays.

Which just reminds us that this world is a broken place, where innocent people are caught in the crossfire of evil.  But where community and love and prayer and hope bring beauty all the same.

I'm way on the periphery of all these stories, praying for the ladies with breast cancer in my Thursday prayer group, emailing and talking with missionaries on distant teams, and helping coordinate and mobilize the less-then-24-hours of intense effort for the toddler.  When she arrived in a flurry of doctors from her own mission hospital and our normal ICU staff, I could see pretty quickly that extra hands were not needed.  So when the surgeon asked for a donor for O+ blood, I jumped on giving the one thing I could offer.

Which wasn't enough.

But which symbolizes pretty powerfully all we do, be it prayer or diagnosis or surgery or baking or driving or fundraising.  It's our life, our blood, sweat, and tears, pouring out for redemption, an imitation and partnership with Jesus.

Because God didn't rewind the world to erase evil.  And He doesn't stop evil on every front at every moment.  But by the blood and by word (Rev 12:11) we are part of that death-swallowing victory, the one that overcomes evil in the end, that writes a good ending to all these stories that look pretty dismal at the moment, that transforms five cancers into a weight of glory.

In the Year That . .

 . . King Uzziah died, Isaiah saw the most incredible, detailed, majestic, overwhelming vision of God, which Pastor Couch preached on Sunday morning.  Fiery servants, terror, trembling.  A self-revelation and affirmation, a change in direction.

Because when a political regime changes, life becomes unsettled, and a vision of God becomes more necessary.

This is the year that President Uhuru Kenyatta won.  And it has been an unsettling time.

The election was held a week ago, with long lines and optimism, with correspondents snapping colorful photos of the Africa people in the West want to see:  beaded maasai women clustering and queuing, or slum residents loitering outside shops waiting for news.  For about a day the results were steadily flowing in and being broadcast, and we all thought the new era of responsible management had begun.

Only then it became apparent that the lap-tops being used to power identification programs (fingerprints) and the cell network being used to report results, weren't working.  Polling stations were in schools, and whoever designed the program failed to take into account the lack of electricity in most schools.  The election monitors were taksed to bring the ballets back to their NBI headquarters.  The initial tally was re-counted.  Some of the monitors failed to show up, for days.  The entire excruciating process dragged on from Tuesday through Saturday.  Britian "happened" to land troops for a training exercise.  Kenya was getting restless.  Friday we expected the announcement, and Friday night went to bed still uncertain.  The winner would have to get 50% PLUS a minium of 1 vote more, AND garner at least 25% in more than half of the 47 counties.  We heard about police officers being killed by a mob on the coast, but the week was mostly tense and surreal, with verbal arguments but commendable restraint.  A LONG, long wait and see.

On Saturday morning we were awakened at 5 a.m. by shouts, screams, horns, whistles and drums. It seems the unofficial tally was complete, and Uhuru Kenyatta was the winner with 50,07% of the vote.  His ethic background is similar to that of our neighbors, so they were ecstatic.  I peaked out the window, fairly certain this was happiness (vuvuzelas for instance) but equally aware of the potential for violence.  Masses of people marched in the darkness in front of our house, their dusty coats or huddled shoulders visible in the car headlamps which followed each section of humanity.  They were ululating, screaming, whistling, dancing.  There would be a group, then a car, then more marchers, then more cars. They were celebrating, but the line between a victorious throng and a mob seemed small in the darkness.

Seven hours and one patient-death later, we were back around the TV on a Saturday afternoon, waiting for the 11 am official announcement.  Three hours of commentary, music, crowd shots, false starts, suspicious pauses, announcements later, we finally saw the chairman of the IEBC (electoral commission) take the podium.  "There can be victory without victims," he said.  Kenyatta was declared the winner.

The runner-up, Odinga, with 43% of the vote, immediately filed a petition in court.  There were a few protests in his western strongholds, and in a crowded central Nairobi slum.  But no eruption of widespread unrest.  The police waited.  The people waited.  And not much happened.  Today we're all breathing a collective sigh of relief.  The sun is shining, the schools reopened, groceries are once again on the agenda, the hospital clinics are full.

Kenyans showed that history does not have to repeat.  Our chaplain this morning commended the "hakuna haraka katika Africa" (no hurry in Africa) attitude of Kenyans as we spent six days in suspense, allowing the tedious process to be carried out.  This election is seen as a triumph of democracy, at least by those who won of course, but I think by the world in general.  It is also seen as a triumph of Africans refusing to bow to pressure from the West. What Americans see as a moral issue (the ICC vs. Kenyatta) Africans see as a sovereignty issue.  When the US issued a veiled threat that the people should not choose Kenyatta, it only seemed to boost his ratings.   Here is a summary from the news:

In his victory speech, Kenyatta said:  Today, we celebrate the triumph of democracy; the triumph of peace; the triumph of nationhood.  Despite the misgivings of many in the world, we demonstrated a level of of political maturity that surpassed expectations.  That is the real victory today.  A victory for our nation.  A victory that demonstrates to all that Kenya has finally come of age.  That this, indeed, is Kenya's moment."  He also pledged to work together with his political opponents with "friendship and cooperation."  "Kenya needs us to work together," he said.  "Kenya needs us to move on." In a pointed warning to the international community, he added:  "We expect the international community to respect the sovereignty and democratic will of the people of Kenya.  The Africa star is shining brightly and the destiny of Africa is now in our hands."

 And so the next era of Kenyan history begins, mostly with hope, though of course there is frustration and skepticism mixed in too.

Isaiah reminds us that the political regime may change, but God is still on the throne.  The last month has been a trying one as we've wondered if the entire country would fall apart, would we evacuate, what dangers lay ahead.  As the patients trickle back, I am beginning to see this took more than just an emotional toll.  Kids are presenting who have been sick for days or weeks, only their families feared travel to the hospital. One came too late, and died just as he was arriving yesterday.  I need an Isaiah view of God, a new vision of repentance, purpose, hope.

Isaiah 6 ends with the holy seed, the offspring from the burned stump, the post-judgment promise of renewal.  We long to see that day when Jesus' rule drives out fear and death and sorrow and injustice.  When we can celebrate much more than a new president, a new Heavens and a new Earth.

International Women's Day, March 8

In honor of International Women's Day, I salute our Paeds team.  Bob and Rick missed this snap on Wednesday so it truly was an all-women team.

I'm privileged to work with this group.  Next to me is Clinical Officer (PA) Veronica, who made the difficult and agonizing decision to forgo a job in Nairobi that paid almost twice the salary because she was committed to the needier patients here.  She's the core of our nursery team now, and hopes to serve the disabled neurosurgical kids for many years.  Next to her is Dr. Ima, and in the green scrub shirt Dr. Sarah.  These two finished masters in Paediatrics at the University of Nairobi/Kenyatta program, and returned to work at Kijabe with their surgeon husbands.  They are brilliant and caring and I learn from them every day.  In the center is Dr. Erika, who once upon a time was a medical student and intern when I was a resident in Chicago, and now is a successful neonatologist and researcher who came to boost our education and effort for six months.  And on the far right another Dr. Sarah, who shares a position with her paediatrician husband Dr. Rick, here for two years from North Carolina, and impossibly tasked with improving our radiology department on the side.

I salute my own daughter, whom I learned after-the-fact led the RVA students in prayer chapel yesterday, and preached from Romans 13 exhorting her peers to speak with due respect of whomever is elected in Kenya, particularly when talking about elections with Kenyans.  Wise words from an emerging woman who is a leader I would follow.

And on this day I always salute one of my personal friends and heroines, Melen Musoki, wife of the late Dr. Jonah Kule.  Because on March 8 2008 she gave birth to her sixth child and first son, Jonah Muhindo, three months after being widowed by ebola.  I remember that night at the health center, the fellowship of the women there, the bittersweet joy of this son.  Melen is a woman of courage and perseverance who has steered her brood through many trials, founded a nursery and primary school, and held firm to the vision she shared with her husband.

And lastly on this day I salute the mothers of my patients (see yesterday's post) whose hearts break for their vulnerable little ones, who cradle them through fevers and convulsions and diarrhea, who sacrifice to bring them to help.  Working with these women is an honor.  Baby Z stayed with us for over a month, and when she went home this week, her mom called to me from the roadside where she was waiting for a matatu and I was walking to my house.  "Jennifer!" she yelled, and I looked to see who might know my name.  She just wanted to say thank you, again.  Z had come in with fevers and subtle convulsions, and it took some persistence and detective work to figure out she had TB meningitis.  It was touch and go for a while.  Now instead of being dead, she's beautiful and vigorous.  And her mom is so grateful and relieved.

Women reflecting God, in leading and caring and serving.  Happy International Women's Day!

Beauty in the Eye

This week I returned to the Nursery Service, which is now officially an NICU.  I love the tropical steaminess of that cluttered room where we incubate tiny babies and fuss over their ten gram growth spurts.  There are panic codes, "999" pages for which a run and timely intervention can literally mean the difference between life and death.  Yesterday one of those saw me in the delivery room where a mother was grabbing my neck and pulling my hair in agony as the midwife and I supported her on each side and both kept up a constant "push, push" chatter stream, nervously listening to her baby's heart rate ominously slowing.  Then in the miracle that never, ever, gets old, a squished curly-haired head finally emerged, followed quickly by a slippery grey body, and before we could even lift her to the resuscitation table she was squalling.  Alive.

While the rest of Kenya holds their collective breath, stores closed, kids home from school, idle and restless . . . the babies keep coming.  In a pre-election purge almost all my paediatric patients had gone home, but then I switched to nursery where birth takes no holiday.

There is plenty of heartache in the NICU, plenty of loss, as the most dangerous days of a person's life pass by (the first few for a baby, and the one in which a woman endures labor for a woman).But there is also the potential for cure, for life, for revived breathing and a long life.  And it is often very hard to tell which babies will be in danger, and which will thrive.  So we try to give all of them a fighting chance.

The fighting chance can drag on, week by week, for babies with severe birth defects perhaps, or extreme prematurity.  So I found a few babies on my service who had been percolating for weeks.  One had a ballooning head.  One was born with no eyes at all, just slits covering a few membranes.  One is spastic and fussy.  And one has such a list of complications he could be a live textbook:  a mis-shapen skull, an abnormal brain, holes in his heart, and on and on.  Baby E is just plain peculiar looking.

To me.

But not to his mom.  She labors over his feeding.  When we told her we had to do some tests to investigate his fever, she got tears in her eyes anticipating his pain.  She holds him, washes him, loves on him.  As do almost all the mothers of babies that would make you gasp, or politely avert your eyes.

Beauty is a quality they see, because they have lenses of love.

As I was mulling over this with a colleague, she agreed, and took it a step further.  Because their mothers find them beautiful, we start to do the same.  A loved baby starts looking lovelier.  And that love-tagged value keeps us fighting for these little ones.

I know, because I feel the same about my kids.  Caleb is in a 48-hour period now of the final-push of abuse and trial, mental and physical, before the first year class reaches the milestone of "recognition" on Saturday.  Relative to the Air Force, he's a disabled child, down to one crutch but still limping along in a brace with a hard road ahead. Please pray for him.  To me he's beautiful, as are Luke, Julia, Jack and Acacia, no matter what they have to go through, I'm on their side.

So I try to be on Baby E's side too, joining his courageous mother to hedge him from harm and keep him firmly amongst the living.  Because he's beautifully loved.

The Two Queens of Heaven

The world is watching Kenya tonight.  Monday was election day, the first under the new constitution, and the first since post-election violence five years ago claimed 1200 lives and displaced 60,000 people.  Scott and I both covered call all day so our Kenyan colleagues could vote.  And they did.  The entire atmosphere was eerily hushed, few vehicles, few patients, everyone in long lines at polling stations, queuing for hours in the heat and dust of the dry season sun.  After voting, our friends were calm, proud, determined, prayerful.  Today we've been watching the long slow process of tallying the votes.

County by county, the results trickle in.  In spite of numerous predictions that the race would be un-win-able in the first round, Uhuru Kenyatta, son of the country's first president, leads with 53%.  He must win not only a simple majority but also at least 25% of the vote in at least half the counties (24/47).  This is no small task as the country is divided starkly, with West and Coast voting for Odinga his historical rival, and Central ignoring the ICC criminal war-crime indictment and falling solidly behind Kenyatta.  Still we have over half the votes still to be counted.  So we all wait a bit nervously.

Yet as I watch the tally tonight, my mind is on the politics of eternity.  At that feast, Uhuru Kenyatta and Rail Odinga will be mere footnotes.  Seated in the places of honour will be the least-of-these heroines, my nominations for queens of Heaven.

PS came to us in casualty one day, where her father signed her in then disappeared.  Abandoned.  Before he left we gathered that this child had once been normal but had a catastrophic illness, perhaps meningitis.  It seems the father works in the capital, and went to check on the family, found her in a condition of starvation and sores, felt horrified enough to load her in the car but desperate enough to panic and run.  We weren't sure if she could see or hear; she could not certainly not walk or talk or sit or communicate.  We think she is about 9 years old.  In Kenya the options for an abandoned neurologically devastated malnourished child are not good.  Various otherwise-caring people suggested to me that we put her in an ambulance and send her to the national hospital where we would also have to abandon her (they would not agree to accept her as a transfer).  Or that there was nothing we could do other than find the same family that got her into this condition, and send her back.  Or that we stop giving her any feeding or even fluids and let her die.  Thankfully with the Needy Children Fund we worked out a plan to admit her for a week or so, hiring an attendant to help the nurses with her care, dressing her wounds and staving off her hunger.  In that week we worked with the police (who did nothing), but were finally able to get in touch with a Sisters of Charity organization who agreed to take her.  Thank God for Mother Theresa, for someone who stood for the value of touching the untouchables, caring for the most hopeless, as a ministry to Jesus himself.

MM is also nine.  She was also a normal kid, until a "mad man" held her down and raped her when she was six, strangling her and damaging her trachea so badly she had to have a tracheostomy to breathe.  By some miracle of childhood resilience she revived and was going to school with her trach (a small plastic tube in the front of her neck to keep her airway open) until a few months ago, when a classmate decided to pull it out.  In the ensuing chaos of suffocation, she suffered severe brain damage before her airway was restored.  Since then she has wasted away to skin and bones as her single mother struggles to cope.  She convulses and moans, and I'm not sure how much awareness she has of what is happening around her now either.  We're treating her infections and boosting up her nutrition too, on the no-child-should-feel-hungry principle even though a cure is not medically possible. Just trying to bring a measure of comfort and dignity in a life that has known too much suffering.

PS and MM, queens of Heaven.  That's how I think of them as I round and prescribe and problem-solve.  The glorious women that will someday emerge like butterflies from the chrysalis, the unimaginable way all this suffering will be redeemed.  We see a shell of spasticity and weeping sores and raspy breath and uncomprehending eyes.  God sees two women whom He will feel honored to seat on Jesus' right and left.

And when that happens, I hope Kenyatta and Odinga are at the table, but I suspect they'll be way down the line in the economy section with me.

Meeting for Peace: East Africa Model UN

This past week Jack accompanied 16 other RVA students daily to Nairobi for the East Africa Model United Nations Conference.  Nearly a thousand kids from Kenya, Tanzania, Rwanda, Uganda, and beyond congregated in the actual UN buildings (there are only 3 places in the world like this I'm told, though I can't remember the one that's not New York or Nairobi).


These kids were African, Asian, European, American, all hues and backgrounds, from those who grew up a stone's throw away to those whose parents are posted here on diplomatic or business purposes.  They conducted a week of speeches, resolutions, debates, and parliamentary procedures.  Each school was assigned a handful of countries or organizations to represent, and then their delegates were divided between four major sections of about 200+ each:  politics, economics, ecology, and human rights, with a smaller number sent to a special session that debated a few specific and varied topics.


Jack was assigned to represent the IMF on the Human Rights committee.  The resolution he wrote was chosen for recognition as best in his committee, and I'm told he spoke very well (let me testify that the boy can argue a point).  He had designed a program for Columbia to combat the use of human mules in drug trafficking.  RVA received 4 other certificates for speaking, so netted 5 of about 20 awards given.  (that's Jack in the blue shirt below).





One of our students, Daniel Letchford, was Secretary-General and gave a very inspiring speech in the last session in front of the entire thousand people.  He pointed out that only opportunity, not merit, separated the kids in the room from their neighbors all over Africa, and challenged them to make the most of those opportunities.

I was able to join the last day, Friday, as an observer, and am so glad I went.  This is a microcosm of the world, and these students will be the very people who lead us into peace or war in the next decades.  By meeting each other, they formed understanding and bonds.  They learned to debate issues with logic and passion.  They got a taste of the political process.

Particularly poignant and urgent as Kenya approaches elections in two days . . .

 This is the whole RVA group in front of the UN sign.  Tim Reber, principal and MUN sponsor, is in the back on the left.

 The Human Rights committee, above and below.

This was as close up as I could get to Jack, blue shirt in center . . . 

They also missed a week of school, so Jack's paying for that this weekend as he tries to catch up.  Tomorrow he turns 15. We measured him at 6 feet 1 3/4 inches this morning.  He just finished basketball season and starts rugby tryouts tomorrow; he writes creatively and aces precalc and physics; he thinks deeply about eternal issues.  Whenever I think of how his life started, with me running from rebels and extremely ill with dysentery and high fevers in the first trimester of his gestation, I marvel that someone so robust could emerge from that inauspicious beginning.  Grace, all grace.  

18 years ago today

This boy was born, right here in Kijabe, Kenya.




This morning I thank God for one of His four greatest gifts in our lives.  In honor of the day, I walked into maternity (where I now rush in to revive struggling newborns on a regular basis) and asked a student nurse to take my photo on the very bed where Caleb was born.  We had come to Kijabe in January 1995, one of the first flights off our new jungle airstrip, after preterm labor was failing to resolve.  We stayed in the Kijabe motel, took Luke to visit the rabbits at the demonstration gardens daily, drank chai at what is now Mama Chiku's, and waited.  On Feb 28 morning I walked Barns with Luke on my back and that did the trick.  Diane Bannister and Scott let me hold onto their shoulders to climb up on that bed, and Caleb Scott Myhre came perfectly into this windy beautiful place just after noon.  We spent the rest of the day in a bed on maternity (what is now the 50's) and then took him to the motel where he slept in a trunk with the lid removed. About two weeks later we drove four days back to Bundibugyo.

Where the Bhana Bhana (4 kids) grew up.  With wagon rides and friends and football and hikes and a sandpile and legos and stories and singing and bug bites and pizza and sombe and mountain peaks and funerals and school and gunfire and crises and love.

I would give much to see a smile like this on Caleb today.  Thankfully our friends in Colorado Springs have managed to penetrate the Academy with some packages.  But this 18 year old continues to hobble a hard road.  He's on his 10th week of crutches, and as if that is not punishment enough, restricted to the Academy until he serves 50 hours of sitting in a supervised study hall.  He plugs away at physics and Arabic and calculus and spends a couple hours a day going to do physical therapy.  He encounters a constant stream of abusive interaction and stress.

When Caleb was born, God gave us the story of Abraham and Isaac to lead us to take some risks with an uncertain outcome.  This year it is the story of Joseph that resonates:  he also fell in a pit, served hard time, was isolated and challenged.  But God used all that evil for good, both for Joseph, his family, and the world.  

So please join us in praying for Caleb today. Thank God for his life, his courage, his grit.  Pray that he would not lose sight of HOPE.  That he would have true friendship and community in an environment that can be hostile.  That God will redeem this year of torn ligaments and nose-to-the-grindstone work to mold a man who will bless the world in ways we can not foresee.

breaking radio silence...

Someone wrote a comment and said, "It's been 20 days since you posted on the blog...are you OK?"

Well, I guess there's a reason: Life happens.  It was a perfect storm....

- We are one of six couples who officially "sponsor" the RVA Junior Class (Julia's class).  Every February, the Junior Class puts on "Banquet", the RVA equivalent of "Junior Prom."  It's a "Dinner-Theater Event". So, we have been consumed by Banquet Prep - Jennifer on the "Tables and Settings" Committee and me on the "Drama-Entertainment Committee".  The theme was "TITANTIC"! 

- One of our missionaries in South Sudan was in Arusha, Tanzania about two weeks ago when she developed severe malaria.  She was critically ill and required air-evacuation to our hospital so that we could take care of her (if there's one thing we know how to do, it's treat complicated malaria).  That two sentence summary doesn't really do justice to the utterly stressful and consuming two weeks of treating a colleague who has a life-threatening illness.  She's been discharged from the hospital and is convalescing in our home now.

- Kijabe Hospital.  We're living on the edge, with very little margin.  But it's worth it.  The video link HERE gives a different glimpse of the kids who come for care at our hospital.

Kijabe Hospital Video

CLICK HERE 

to see a video about Kijabe Hospital, our home for the past two years.

This video beautifully portrays the work of Kijabe Hospital:  compassionate healing of the poor and vulnerable, spiritual care, and training for service.

While the video focuses on the surgical services of Kijabe Hospital, there are many other non-surgical services behind the scenes as well (general outpatient, pediatrics, internal medicine, etc.).

Bottom line, it's a busy, busy hospital serving patients from every corner of East Africa and proclaiming the Kingdom come in word and deed.

(P.S. - you may catch a glimpse of Scott in several different clips as he delivers a baby by C-Section).

Jua Kali

Saturday morning, 6:30, pulling out of the rough driveway to scour Nairobi for several items my Banquet (the non-dancing version of a prom here at RVA, more like dinner theatre with elaborate sets, better-than-usual food, dressed-up couples, and plenty of drama) committee still needs for decorating tables.  This has been a heavy burden weighting me down, because I never find time to shop in Nairobi, I'm not a good shopper, I'm not sure what is even possible to find, and the hopes and dreams of a bunch of kids shouldn't rest on my busy-ness and inexperience. We tried to save money by ordering a small item on line, which ended up originating in China, taking so long to get to California it missed connecting with Luke and Caleb at my in-laws, then being lost in the bowels of the Air Force post office for a month and a half, until yesterday . . . not a smooth plan.  Time to focus on local procurement.  So I invited my old Swahili teacher to come with me. He does a major family shopping trip to Nairobi every Saturday, to pick up the fruits he loves (buusukali, the little Ugandan bananas) or certain vegetables that he wants his kids to acclimate to from their western Kenyan roots (pumpkin leaves), to visit friends and get a haircut and exchange news and who knows what else.  So Scott had the brilliant idea of offering to drive him around to some of these excursions and transport his groceries, in exchange for advice and initiative in my own hunt.


We flew down the nearly empty Saturday morning roads just after daylight, chatting and plotting.  First stop, a little shack of a flower shop where E thought we might ply the owner for advice on where to find wreaths we could use for a flower decoration.  I had only found small bricks of flower-holding foam previously, nothing circular, or big enough to cut a circle from.  Our time was drawing near, and I didn't know where to look.  As we arrived the brilliance of Scott's plan became apparent.  Various security guards and casual laborers were lingering around the wooden stall behind a gas station, drinking porridge which an enterprising woman was selling to the pre-work early-morning crowd, pouring from her thermoses into a series of plastic cups.  As they sipped and waited, E struck up friendly conversations.  He politely enquired and prodded and came up with several good leads on other items we were searching for.  Eventually the stall's owner showed up.  Buy a wreath?  Why?  He showed us how he makes them.

Jua kali translates as "hot sun" in Swahili, but it's the term for innovation.  The people who work on the roadside.  Out of their house.  Behind buildings.  The people who cobble together this and that, who repair tires with plastic bags, who bend wire to keep an engine running.  Who can serve a meal from a pot balanced on rocks, who can sew a suit on a treadle machine.  These people don't have offices or titles, they live on a fragile margin.  But they can almost always solve a problem, and they are good-natured about the effort, willing to extend time and help to a stranger.  There is almost always an interested crowd since this happens outdoors, without the isolating barriers of walls and procedures.  There is abundant advice, and celebration of success.

Note the wheel barrow, matatu, and bus

Africa abounds in creative ingenuity.  The old adage "want is the mother of invention" could have been coined here.  If a more pampered person like me lacks the tool or the access to find what I imagine, then I'm stuck.  But in Africa one does not expect the exact item to be available, one simply makes do and improvises.  We found what we needed on Saturday, not by a google-search or an amazon-order.  We found it by hitting the streets, striking up conversations, asking for help, accepting compromise.  Those two aspects of jua kali intrigue me:  concocting solutions, and doing so communally.

So I'll end with a picture I snapped that morning while waiting for the flower-stall owner.  Two men jumped off a truck to load some massive sacks of carrots which had been dropped there earlier in the morning.  The 50-kg bags were extended in capacity (more jua kali) by a rope net, so I"m sure each weighed more than I do, at least 70kg?  I wondered how they could get hold of the bulky bundle, let alone lift it.




As I watched, one man gripped the other's arm tightly, then they tilted the sack of carrots back onto their human bridge, used their other hands to grab the bottom of the bag, and off they went to the truck.

Instead of struggling to hold the bag, they held onto each other.

The beauty of this hit me like 50 kilograms of carrots.  We try to solve our problems alone, or if we can draw in help, we both try to hoist the burden, grabbing and clutching unsuccessfully.  If we hold onto each other in community instead, the burden becomes lift-able.

African jua kali, wisdom of the streets, born in desperation but leading the way.