Mombasa

My half-price ticket requires me to stay a couple of days longer than the rest of the team. I head down to Mombasa on a cheap flight. This may well be my final visit to Kenya and last chance to scope out this place I romanticized when a child. As a girl, my mum’s family used to holiday down here on the coast, courtesy of a kind businessman who had a soft spot for penniless missionaries. She spoke of those holidays regularly and with great fondness.

According to my uncle’s memoirs, they stayed at Bamburi Beach, about 20 miles north of Mombasa town. There are resorts all up and down the coast, but they are pricey and beyond me. Anyway, I tell myself, I want to get a feel for Mombasa proper. I will be staying on the island, which sounds exotic but then someone also once named their daughter Chlamydia because they thought it sounded so pretty.

Shuttle driver John is waiting for me at the airport holding a sign with my name on it. It is even spelt correctly, which is most gratifying since the last thing with my name on it was my cubicle/bed in Turkana: Graham Billikie. To be fair, that is kind of how Kenyans pronounce my last name so I guess they just spelt it out half way phonetically. 

We head into town at breakneck speed until we hit major road construction, but the pot holes and pedestrians, roundabouts and tuk tuks (three-wheeled motorcycle “cars”) do little to dampen John’s enthusiasm at being behind the wheel. My guess is he calculates his tip on how many pedestrians he almost hits but doesn’t put in hospital. But I just smile and we continue our conversation about Mombasa. On my three trips to Kenya, I’ve learned that Kenyans have their own rules of the road, which they all seem to understand amidst the chaos. And if they don’t, a honk on the horn reminds them and they move out of the way at the last minute.

My hotel is smack in the center of things. It is very plain and the shower is cold and the air conditioning hot. But it is mainly clean, has very friendly staff (including a couple of security guards who wand everyone who comes in), and the big selling point is it has a free breakfast. There’s nothing much on the small TV except static and very melodramatic Indian soap operas with the same theme (Indian man trying to convince Indian woman to marry him. Variation on theme: Indian parents trying to convince daughter this arranged marriage is a good thing). So, after a cold shower in the morning, I head down for beef sausages, scrambled eggs and baked beans—the breakfast of champions, or diabetics at least.

Back in my room, I am quickly sweating. Mombasa is very humid. I think about being the loud American (now that I am a proud dual passport holder) and politely asking for another room, but I decide not to sweat it by, um, sweating it. I put a few things in my sling and head out to experience Mombasa. Though I am the only white guy for miles (I only saw one other white guy at a distance in two days—two white guys if you include the albino Kenyan who walked past me), people are very friendly and many of them greet me. Later, on the way to the airport, my driver Paul (a Jehovah’s Witness, but that didn’t affect his driving) will tell me that foreigners are slowly coming back. They stayed away after a terrorist attack or three gave parts of Kenya a bad name.

After scores of Tuk Tuk drivers have honked at the white guy with no tan to see if I want a ride with them, I arrive half an hour later at Fort Jesus. This is a 400-year-old Portuguese fort built in the shape of Jesus on the cross, and just loaded with history. As I get close to the entrance, an elderly gentleman with tobacco-stained teeth sidles up to me and asks where I’m from. I don’t do a good Russian accent, so I tell him New Zealand, but living in America. “Ah, Auckland, New Zealand,” he says. “You are a kiwi.” This guy is good. I read about him, or his cousins, in a few guidebooks. His name is Omar, a Moslem. Long story short, he guides me through the Fort and Old Mombasa for the next 3 hours. It is a pleasure to be supporting the local economy, and he certainly earns the 1200 shillings ($12) I finally part with (many here make 1000 shillings [$10] in a whole day).

Old Mombasa is a fascinating place, predominantly Moslem. We walk past the high-pitched voices of boys reciting the Koran in a madrassah (Islamic school). Women in black burkas and hijabs ignore or furtively glance at me from narrow slits. Some have elaborate tatoos on their hands, the only flesh that can be seen. “Don’t come here on your own,” Omar tells me. “Bag snatchers.” Around the fish market, men are lounging—perhaps waiting for work. Or me. Or just lounging. Though I am clearly “other,” I don’t feel unsafe. Even here, a number of people welcome me: “Jambo!” (“hello!”). “Karibu!” (“welcome!”).

After my tour, I head back to the fort and wander along the rocks at its base. One guy who has been swimming and who is sunning himself smiles at me and makes swimming motions, as if giving a friendly dare for me to go in. I smile back and shake my head. My Columbia pants would dry soon enough, but I’m a bit nervous about my passport, wallet and camera. And then there’s my hat which prompted one person to greet me, “Hello Texas Ranger.” It is an “Aussie” branded hat, but made in New Zealand. Perhaps this one wonder is a portent that world peace is possible after all.

Sadly, there are a lot of plastic bottles that have washed up or been discarded in this otherwise picturesque spot. But I find a small patch of clear sand in the shade of a half-cave, and sit and admire the view of the water. After a while, a guy wanders down the rocks to the shallows, takes everything off (I mean everything), sits down, and proceeds to wash himself and his clothes in the briny water. As I have done so often on this trip, I thank God for how blessed I am to have not just clean water, but a washing machine, and I marvel at how resourceful so many are who have so little.

Miscellany

It's hard to capture an experience like Turkana adequately in pictures, let alone words. Impressions are so many and so varied--one can only list them and hope they form some kind of kaleidoscope.

•  The soak and stink of sweat after a 6-mile walk past huts and goat corrals lining the sandy "streets" of Lodwar
• The beaming smiles of school children mobbing us as we walk, and as they practice their only English: "How arrrrr you? How arrrrr you?"
• The smell of African spices from the kitchen in the evening, and the wiry texture of a chicken that has probably run the length and breadth of Turkana looking for food and water
• The rapid-fire translation and gesticulations of our interpreter as we teach and talk, rhythmic phrase by rhythmic phrase
• The utter barrenness of the terrain in which the Turkana somehow eke out an existence against all odds
• The theological discussions with mzungu (white) pastors and Turkana pastors and missionaries about polygamy (one villager yesterday had 9 wives--one in each of the various regions he grazes his goats so they can assist him, and "comfort" him)
• The cacophony of sound as 100 Turkana pastors pray passionately to their Lord--out loud
• The large scorpion found in a shallow "pool" being used for baptisms in the village where the team overnighted
• The sound of the water truck arriving early in the morning after the tank has run dry--so we can shower, and flush
• The hope, and joy, on sun-wrinkled foreheads as Turkana men place their faith in the One who gave His life for them
• The sudden darkness in a Q&A forum with pastors as the power-grid temporarily fails, and the gleam of cell phones
• The awareness--when one of them tells me that another tribe has killed some of his family members and friends, and tried to torch his house--that these guys REALLY live their faith in a manner that shames me
• The French accent of our team mate from Birundi in the morning, "Eet eez zee best coffeeeeeeeee!"
• The intense twinkle of the southern cross in the desert
• The dawning of realization that Habakkuk really is a message they understand and live so much better than I: "Though there is no fruit on the vine, or sheep in the pen, or cattle in the stalls, yet will I rejoice in God my Savior"

Deluge!

At 2am a few days ago we woke to thunder and lightning. Then it poured for about 10 hours. Turkana is in a five-year drought with virtually no rain in the last year. The rain is an incredible blessing, say the Turkana, though it is tinged with sadness; two boys were swept away in the resulting floods as they tried to rescue someone else.

The team was unable to cross in their four-wheel-drives, so had to cancel village outreach for the day. The next day, they waited two hours at a flooded bridge as a truck, on the verge of being swept away, was salvaged. They made it out to the village after a 6-hour trip and overnighted there in tents. In the early morning, they were greeted by a foot-long millipede and large scorpion.

During the two days of ministry there, over 100 placed their faith in Christ and were baptized in a safe tributary of the "river."

Wi-fi/internet is spotty and heavily competed for by the team, hence the brevity of this post.

Turkana Men & Their Stools

Sopel Village

Turkana girls dancing

Today is Gary and my day to leave the classroom and join the team in the village. I'm feeling just a little queasy from too much goat or something over the last couple of days, so take a pepto tablet, offer a prayer, and don't each too much for breakfast.

We bounce over gravel, dirt and sand "roads" in five four-wheel-drives as we head to the village of Sopel, an hour away. Though they have no building, there is an active church here. That has not always been the case. Later, a Turkana missionary will share with us that twenty years ago when he tried to preach the gospel here, the men of the village built a "prison" for him and locked him up for some time.

Oldest remaining man due to drought

But we are warmly welcomed by the pastor and many church members. Children from the church and village greet us and do a traditional dance and song. Then we split up into age and gender groups as is customary in Turkana culture: children; young girls; young men; married women; married men.

The married men, from young to very old, start to arrive. We hear from some of the elders through our interpreters. One of them says that he is the oldest; a number of the other old men have died as a result of the drought. When 20 of them are there, we begin.

Just before we left for the village, Director Sammy asked Gary and me to talk for about 15 minutes each on "Who is God?" and "Who is man?" respectively. Since we've been teaching Bible Pathways, we have not been part of the village men's curriculum planning, so we have to wing it. This is ministry on the fly. On the drive there--between bounces and bumps--I decide to do a "goat" theme: goats are their life. "All we like sheep/goats have gone astray." (I wander off in exaggerated pantomime.) "I am the Good Shepherd; I lay down my life for the sheep/goats." "My sheep/goats know my voice, and I give them eternal life."

A couple of others from the team follow Gary and me, and Sammy concludes. While everyone is teaching, I set my small camera on my knee and am able to unobtrusively take photos with its great zoom. They've sat on their tiny wooden stools, listening in rapt attention for a couple of hours with just two interludes of jumping and stomping to get the blood flowing again. It is incredible to see these wizened old men squat down just inches from the ground and deftly position their stools underneath them. There is no running water in the village, no toilet facilities. Occasionally men get up and wander off to a tree. One returns, adjusting his wide open robe slowly on the walk back, without any embarrassment whatsoever.

As Sammy wraps everything up with an invitation for personal response to the Savior who gave His life for the Turkana people, they are fully engaged. These men, who once imprisoned a missionary, are hungry for God and His Word. Some 30 or so of them put up their hand to indicate their faith. To make sure, he changes the response: they are now to stand if they want to trust Christ. They stand. A third time, Sammy gives them a step to take to express genuine intent: they are to step up to a line he draws in the sand. All the same men do--almost half of the men there. After prayer with them and the pastor, and noting their names so they can be followed up, another man steps forward. He is a Christian who used to walk into Lodwar to get to church (an hour trip for us in 4-wheelers!) He says he has since wandered from God and wants to get right with Him again. We pray with Him.

2 1/2 hours & hungry for more

Sociologists of religion and church growth experts talk about the move of God to the global south, and this response is indicative of the hungry hearts all over Turkana and, I am told, most of Africa. I have to hold back tears at the privilege of witnessing this most marvelous of all miracles.

Send Center/Share International, Turkana

We fly to Lodwar via a brief stop in Eldoret. A small version of Rio’s Jesus is looking down at us from the big hill overlooking Lodwar “International” Airport, so named because small planes might someday come here from countries bordering Turkana, such as Ethiopia and Uganda. It is hot. Desert hot. There has been a severe drought here, one of the Share International staff tell us, for the last five years. There has been only occasional rain and in minute quantities.

The Send Center is an oasis in this harsh place—physically as well as spiritually; through careful planting of hundreds of small trees and recycling of water, the green is wonderfully inviting. The trees have taken off even in the two years since I first came.

After a quick orientation, dinner and assignment to rooms, we head off to bed to sweat under mosquito nets and fans.

Monday morning we rise early for shared devotions at 7am, breakfast and the teams’ departure to the villages. My co-teacher, Gary, and I set up the room for our pastor/leader/missionary students who are excited to be preaching to us from the Old Testament book of Habakkuk. So much packed into 3 short chapters. We are excited to be exploring it with them. This is their 8^th of 9 modules in Bible Pathways over the last 3 years. In the other auditorium, another group of pastors is receiving other training on evangelism and discipleship by Big Life, and on Principles of Shepherding. This will be 8 days choc full of spiritual and practical goodies. 

Kenya STORM 2017 Begins

Flights

The flights go smoothly, though I don’t sleep a wink and have to stay sanctified and stifle an impulse to slap the guy in the row in front of me who is snoring very loudly. From Frankfurt to Nairobi, I have a profitable conversation with my seat mate, a Catholic, about theology. When we arrive in Nairobi, we finally get through customs after an hour-and-a-half, and I get to use my U.S. passport for the first time. Excited to be back in Kenya, land of my fathers!

Uncle Griff

After a good sleep and breakfast, my driver and friend, Isaac, picks me up in an old vehicle. He explains that he hired out his van to a friend who drove it up a hill to or from Nakuru without checking the water and after the gauge indicated the engine was frying. So this car is one he has hired from another friend. We head through Nairobi’s atrocious traffic and arrive at my 97-year-old Uncle’s place. He is my mother’s brother, and I have been reading 177 pages in Part I of his memoirs which go from my grandparents’ arrival in Kenya 100 years ago (real pioneer days) to the end of World War II in which he served in the Camel Corps in British Somaliland. It is such a treat to catch up again with him and his wonderful wife, Yvonne.

On the way back to the hotel, Isaac and I stop at a Forex at the Galleria Mall to change money. Back in the car, it won’t start. A quick prayer later, and it still won’t start. It’s an amusing picture in Kenya: the white mzungu pushing the car with all his might, African Isaac at the wheel. Our “crash start” is successful. Ten minutes later, the car dies on the freeway. Trucks and cars whizz by, inches away. As Isaac starts to dial his friendly mechanic, I exit the car in case it is hit. I convince Isaac, who thinks it’s safer in the car, to move it a little further off the road, though there is a sharp drop off. While we’re waiting for his mechanic, someone stops a hundred yards ahead and starts to back up towards us. He is terrible at reversing, and weaves in and out of the lane as trucks honk angrily. He offers me a ride, which Isaac recommends I take for 1200 Kenya Shillings ($12.00). I figure so long as he drives forwards and not backwards, my odds are pretty good. I’m glad I have taken the ride when I hear from Isaac four hours later that he is still waiting for a tow.

Sports and Sleep

He messages me on WhatsApp in the morning saying he has not been able to get another vehicle, so I cancel my plans to see another Kenyan friend and visit the national museum, catch up on some sleep and watch the 3rd rugby test match between the British Lions and the New Zealand All Blacks. They’ve won a game each, so this is the decider. It is a vigorous game, a cliff hanger. In the last 5 minutes the TV signal dies completely. Karibu Kenya, I think: Welcome to Kenya. I have to google the final result.

That night, I have dinner with Sammy, the director of Share International, the ministry I’ll be serving with in Turkana, and Lee Woody Wood, a presenter from another ministry, Big Life, who will be doing some teaching with the pastors at our training conference. The team comes in later that night.

We have introductions over breakfast. Most are from a church in Naples, Florida. At noon, we pile into vans and head to the airport, just 5 miles from the hotel. Five minutes later, repeated bumps indicate we have a flat, so we all pile out of the van as the driver changes the tire. Fortunately, it has air in it and we are on our way again in 15 minutes.

Soon we are on Flight 540 Air to Lodwar, the seat of Turkana County, an hour-and-a-half flight When we all arrive from our various points of origin, there will be about 25 of us altogether, including 5 from Nairobi. The real adventure and mission is about to begin.

Summit

2am arrives quickly. It is chilly and damp getting out of our sleeping bags, but the excitement of what is ahead, and Kenyan tea, warms us.

Mt Kenya or Mars?

We put on multiple layers, grab our trekking poles, turn on our headlamps and start the climb upwards in single file. Aside from the headlamps twinkling on various parts of the mountain ahead, it is very dark. The stars are bright above, as is the moon which is surrounded by a huge hazy corona. The portents are good; it will be a night to remember.

The first 45 minutes are relatively easy going. Then we hit the shale. Our guides spread out to help us negotiate the moving rocks in the darkness. My headlamp has been getting increasingly dimmer which really annoys me because I purchased fresh batteries and put one in an hour ago. Evidently, moisture from the deluge two days earlier is affecting the battery. When my headlamp goes out, Darrin and David, our Athletes in Action father-son duo, give me a spare hand flashlight, which is very kind of them. But it, too, doesn't know its job description, and keeps flickering weakly. I beat it with my trekking pole and it cooperates for a while till it dies out, or I kill it, I know not which. Stumbling around in the darkness, Benson, our guide has pity on me and gives me his headlamp. 

Dawn breaks near the icy summit of Mt Kenya

Fifteen minutes later, dawn slowly begins to break. All around us, appearing as if out of nothing, are the majestic peaks of Mount Kenya. It is not a single cone like the slightly higher Kilimanjaro, but a multi-peaked stratovolcano. The two highest peaks, Batian and Nelion, are technical climbs requiring mountaineering skill and technical climbing equipment. Of course, I can't even get my flashlight to stay on. Good thing we are headed toward Point Lenana.

Did Sir Edmund Hillary wear his New Zealand beanie?

We scramble and climb and clamber. There are some large rocks to negotiate and some very slippery spots where ice conspires to send the novice places he definitely doesn't want to go. But we are almost there. The last obstacle is an iron ladder pounded into the rock, caked with ice. "Hold very tightly," Joshua says. He gives the same advice for a rope strung between two precarious points, also heavily covered with ice. This is not where I intend my final resting place to be so I hold on for dear life which is kind of hard to do when you have to move along the rope and let it slip through your fingers. Then, we are up!

This is what we have come for. The spectacular view. The rush of adrenaline. The sense of danger which fools court in order to feel brave for an hour or two.

Point Lenana, 4985 meters, 16355 feet above sea level

The Long Walk

After an early rise and a substantial breakfast, we repack and set out again on the Sirimon Trail for, Guide Benson tells us, a "long day." He is not wrong. But the longest day is still to come.

We start our journey in a circle, with prayer. It is great to be united in faith in our common Savior. Or two guides, Benson and Joshua, are volunteer pastors in their congregations in Nairobi. This is how they support themselves and their families.

Today's hike is 17km, mainly up. We trudge through a boggy marshland shrouded in mist. It seems endless as we slosh and splash through mud and peat and rocky streams. Drizzle comes and goes with the clouds that kiss the mountain continuously. We long for it to clear so we can see this mountain we have traveled so far to see.

Finally, after about four hours, the veil is lifted. The mountain is magnificent, stretching in all directions. But this is still the base of the mountain; the peaks are hidden from us by the valley we are in.

We start to notice more around us. The Alpine vegetation is unique, the valley cliffs, majestic.

On the path we spy some hyena scat. Josh, who has trekked this mountain for 30+ years, explains that the hyenas like to follow hikers. To them, swinging arms look like loose pieces of flesh about to fall off. Hyenas are very hard to spot, however; when they see you turn to look, they quickly disappear behind a bush.

On a roll, Josh explains how to evade other animals that live in the mountain. If attacked by a buffalo (the most dangerous of all animals), you are to run as fast as possible. If unable to escape, you are to lay down and pretend to sleep. Then the buffalo will lick you, trying to wake you up to stomp on you or gore you. Remain asleep until the buffalo goes away.

Elephants have sensitive trunks that do not like the feel of human skin. If you are clothed, they will pick you up, throw you and stomp on you. Take off all your clothes, and you will be fine, if a little self-conscious.

After absorbing this very practical jungle lore, we make our final climb to Shipton Camp. Above us, in the clouds, is Mount Kenya's Lenana peak. A little drier and warmer than the previous evening, we go to bed early in preparation for our 2am rise for the final accent.

Thunder on the Mountain

We pass many Kikuyu, young and old, who look at the wazungu (white people) bemusedly. Why they would want to climb the mountain is a mystery to them. Their name for it is Kirinyaga, Ostrich, so named for the black and white plumage of the male. The mountain from a distance is a black silhouette, the snow, white.

At the Sirimon Gate we off-load everything from the van to distribute  among the packs--the packs that the porters, cooks and guides will carry, that is. We four clients carry day packs with water, some food, sweatshirts, wet weather gear, etc. Ours are 8-15 lbs max. I don't want to imagine the weight these guys are carrying. They are tough hombres, which, not knowing the Swahili word, is the best I can do.

We set off on our first climb, which our guide terms the "easy" climb. It is 11 km (6.83 miles) of non-stop up. It is hot. Things are going well until they're not. It turns chilly and cloudy, then dark. The wind picks up and the rain comes down in torrents. Lightning flashes, thunder booms. Rain becomes hail which becomes rain turning to hail again. Despite sheltering under a tree and putting on wet weather gear, we are soaked, our bags and their contents are soggy, and we are shivering in the cold. This is two hours in to a four day trip--an ominous start.

Just as quickly as it comes, the tempest leaves the mountain and replaces it with the burning colors of an angry sunset. The mountain has spoken. We joke that it is warning us: "No washing on the mountain for the next four days!"

We arrive at Camp Moses as the dark sets in. It is primitive, cold and very damp. But soon our cooks produce their magic and we are eating streaming bowls of soup and African fare, and suddenly life does not seem quite so bleak.

We also drink lots to help stave off altitude sickness but this means frequent trips to the facility which offers a choice of a toilet with no seat or a hole in the floor. The sleeping bags are damp; Jonathon's is wet in a few places. Morning comes, but not very quickly.

Equatorial Kenya

Leaving Nairobi, we pass countless flea markets, but perhaps they're called mosquito markets here.

We all start to get to know each other. We talk about faith and ministry and church. Some of us are cultural addicts to deodorant; others are not. In a few days we'll all be brothers of the sweat fraternity and such petty distinctions will be meaningless. 

We pass fruit stand after stand: vegetables and fruits galore. This is lush Central Kenya, the verdant bread basket of the country. Vendors from Nairobi come up here for their produce.

We arrive at the equator. At least, that's what the sign tells us. It's a bit of an anti-climax. All my life I've pictured it as this magical belt of shimmering hotness, perhaps a mile or so wide, encircling the whole earth. But other than the sign, a few excited Japanese tourists and a Kenyan watching over two little buckets, it's all rather nondescript.

The buckets straddle the equator underneath the sign, and on either side of a white line painted on the concrete. For a couple of hundred Kenya Shillings ($2), we can watch the water swirl clockwise on one side, and anti-clockwise on the other. But ever since I singed my eyebrows with a Bunsen burner in a high school science experiment, I have been wary of such undertakings. We move on. In just millimeters we have gone from winter to summer. I look behind me, but snow is not falling. I must ponder this some more.

In Nanyuki town, we meet the rest of our  team. The team is, of course, seven, the perfect number. Benson and Joshua, both part-time pastors, are our guides. Patrick is the cook, assisted by his son Anthony and Joshua's nephew, David. Meschack, not to be confused with Shadrach or Abednego, is a very sharp, and funny, part-time theology student at a Pentecostal school of which there are hundreds in this devoutly religious country. He, like Samuel (who is related somehow to someone, but I can't remember who), will be a porter. Probably it will take all seven of them to carry me off the mountain. They are a kind of modern day equivalent of James and John, Peter and Andrew with their fishing business. Only I am not Jesus, and I will be following them.

We have lunch at a restaurant (of sorts), do a final equipment check (leaving dead clients on the mountain is never good for business), load the just-purchased supplies, and head toward the base of the mountain on a rutted dirt road.

Nairobi Departure

We are roused by the alarm at 5am. I turn on the light and look up at the mosquitos I squashed on the ceiling last night with a climbing pole. Jonathon has the only mosquito net since I figure he has more years to live than me anyway, but I am not keen to hasten my demise with Denge or Malaria or Chikunguya.

The van arrives a little before six, and we load our packs and selves into our budget vehicle. Three of our team is already with us, so we head into heavy traffic towards downtown Nairobi. It is a chaotic vehicle-fest with cars weaving in and out of roundabouts like ants eight deep.

As the sun comes up, we take Jonathon's damp underwear (not from backseat driving, but last night's wash) and my shirt and spread them out on the seats to dry. We're all family now.

Our next stop is to get an American 'pastor' who turns out to be on Athletes in Action staff, and a Dallas Seminary grad, so we talk friends we have in common. He has just come from a mission in South Africa with his twelve year old son. So we have that in common too.

Then we pick up a real pastor, a Kenyan who, like our guide, is bi-vocational. We are sandwiched in like kernels in a maize cob, driving down the 'super highway' with smoke belching from all the vehicles around us.

All Good Things Come to an End

They say: All good things come to an end. But I say: God things don't. This has been an incredible week where we have seen God at work.

[That last paragraph was written a few days ago, before we left for our debrief retreat. I gave up.

It's been so frustrating to have virtually no access to Wifi and a cellular service that was non-existent. Kind of put the kabosh on my blogging plans. Apologies for that. Some fiber-optic cable problem apparently had Kenyans steaming, and not just from the Lodwar heat. Anyway, enough of my griping.]

I don't have all the stats at my fingertips; you can get those and a ton more information at www.shareint.net. But hundreds came to genuine faith out in the villages, the pastors were hugely encouraged by the leadership training they received all week, and our 14 Pathway pastors are engaging with the principles of Bible Study and sermon prep so well.

The resources out in the bush/desert are so few, but the work of God so evident, it is an unquantifiable privilege to just observe it first hand, let alone participate and contribute to it.

Those at Lakeview and Galena Bible Church and a few others are in for an inspirational treat when the team gets to share all that God did and how he used them and what they saw and learned, and the deep love they now have for the neglected and even despised Turkana tribe.

One of our team members, Barb, said this amazing experience was more than she could have ever imagined and that it was like living the New Testament experience of gospeling and church planting with people who have not heard the gospel, yet are so hungry for it. I couldn't have put it better.

I'll come back here and flesh out some more details with additional pictures when I'm back home with a keyboard and camera cable.

The team flew out tonight with full hearts and having learned much. Wayne, however, was unsuccessful in his bid to master the no-hands-with-the-basket-on-the-head trick.

Lake View Elders Teach Turkana Pastors

Nothing Quite Like Ginger Beer

Ready to fly to Lodwar

Going Walkabout in Lodwar

A few pics while I can.

The Villages

One of our teachers, who is here teaching church history for a few days, has been able to set up a wifi hotspot from his phone, which is allowing me to post, though probably not photos.

My son, Jonathon, was the first to succumb to the dreaded runny tummy (on top of sun burnt feet). His indisposition lasted only 12 hours, for which we thank God as he was able to head out to the village today.

Gary, my co-teacher for Bible Pathways, and I "took the day off" so we could also get to the village once in our time here.

I've been looking forward to this all week, and it didn't disappoint. The people are so hungry for instruction, so open to the gospel, and so grateful for the ongoing care that Share International provides so many in so many ways.

Every month a medical team goes around to the villages, but they've coordinated with our visit, along with the Jesus film showing last night, the animal vaccination team, the eye doctor and food distribution.

We do our welcomes in the rudimentary church building, which has literacy blackboards in the corner, and then head out to different Acacia trees to minister to different age groups.

Jonathon, Clea, Edi and Maggie are with the children, some of the Nairobi team, and their interpreters. And around 400 kids. It's the biggest group so far. They do a great job teaching Jesus's parables, and the gospel.

I go and join the men's team and each of us share in turn. I talk about Jesus as the Good Shepherd from John 10, and bring in my New Zealand experience of sheep to these fine goat herders. The translation doesn't miss a beat until I get to "sheep dog." The translator struggles. He knows what a sheep is and what a dog is, but not quite how these two come together. We finally break the impasse and move on.

Sammy wraps everything up and calls men to take a step of faith in Christ. Seven respond.

There is a man with a large and deep cancerous wound who has not been followed up properly by the medical clinic in town. The ministry arranges for him to go by ambulance to the specialists in Eldoret.

I love the holistic work this mission is doing to really change lives, both for eternity, and in the present.

"Turkana Highway... in the Sun...Shine"

You're probably only singing the above line to yourself if you were once an Eagle's fan.

Church on Sunday morning was a lively two-hour affair with the visitors (us) placed, as is customary, in the front row. Worship was exuberant, with much dancing, jumping, clapping and ululating. We all went up front to put our offering in the basket. Gary (my co-teacher in Bible Pathways) preached an excellent biblical message, and there were a couple of guest artists who lip synced to their recordings. After the service, every hand had to be shaken in a long line.

The Turkana people are passionate for God, warm and welcoming.

After lunch, we bundled into a school bus to head to Lake Turkana on, arguably, one of the worst roads in the world. Normally the ministry uses a four wheel drive truck, but it was unavailable. Most unfortunate. The drive was 7 1/2 hours round trip, including off-road detours around washed out bridges.

But the deep-green lake that is the second largest in Africa and goes up into Ethiopia, provided the perfect venue to baptize  perhaps 30 believers from the surrounding villages. It was neat to be able to step back and let two from my team, Steve and Wayne, help with the baptisms. Good is definitely at work in Turkana.

The way home seems even more bumpy. After 7 hours without facilities, some are about ready to burst, so we stop at a strategic place with a defile on either side. Women head toward the Acacia trees on one side, men on the other.

First Full Day

Network data problems here, meaning no blogging, emailing or chatting on WhatsApp. If you're reading this, it means I've gotten close enough to a cell tower--perhaps on the way to the Jesus film showing tonight, or to baptisms in Lake Turkana tomorrow afternoon after church.

Speaking of which, Sammy was sharing about the time he was baptizing a man and asked him, as is the custom here, what baptismal name he had chosen for himself. "Mary," he said. I guess he ended up with another name.

Well, the weather report for today--you guessed it--is hot and sunny. Probably somewhere north of 95 degrees. If I had internet, I'd give it to you more exactly.

We start the morning with group devotions and prayer for God to work through us. After a breakfast of a crepe and sausage, the team heads out to the village, an hour or more away. With some of the team still en route to Turkana, Clea and Jonathon and Edi have to improvise a bit, but it goes very well with the almost 200 children. Similarly with Barb with the women.

Back here, our Lakeview elders, Steve, Wayne and Dave, step into some pretty challenging culture discussions with the pastors, as the three of them teach on leadership. Like what kind of cultural practices are neutral, and what are evil? (For example, a rite of passage to be recognized by the community into male adulthood includes killing a goat, then a bull and doing something with the entrails). How does the gospel, and Christ, transform culture?

Meanwhile, in the other building, I'm having a great time with 14 pastors I taught last year. Three of them give sermon presentations on the story of Jesus healing the paralytic, and then we explore their preaching statements and whether they reflect the thrust of the text. So much [eternally significant] fun.