Saying Grace.

I married a Jewish carpenter.

The Prodigal Son?

“We are very blessed that it is the first time a white man has stepped into this church.”

I felt my face grow warm and my eyes become moist. I glanced over at Dave who clearly looked uncomfortable.

It was so hard for me not to feel angry. It was so hard for me not to wonder what was wrong with these people.

Leave it to my husband, who relentlessly tirades against the fallacy of religion to befriend a pastor on a matatu and not only get invited to attend his church, but also serve as the guest of honor.

The white doctor and his wife.

After several gentle reminders from the good doctor, they eventually recognized me as not only his wife, but also his colleague. I am not foreign to such assumptions, which occur as often in Berkeley as they do here. So the fact that it was hard for them to comprehend that I too was a doctor did not bother me nearly as much as the race issue.

They made a special lunch for us. They killed a chicken that morning, bought sodas and cooked rice and chapattis instead of the traditional ugali in anticipation of our arrival. Though we were scheduled to have lunch with the coordinator of the Rongo clinic later that afternoon, we accepted graciously.

“Our god saved the people of Israel. Our guest is from Israel and the United States. He is the Juice (Jews).”

The church itself was an unadorned hut that had about 10 rows of wooden planks that served as pews. I didn’t see a cross anywhere. The service itself was beautiful; the hymns and chorales were uniquely African, with drums made of sheepskin and rhythmic clapping and ululations abound. The children sang a song about AIDS, after Dave and I said a few words “of inspiration” on the subject.

The Pastor had confided in us earlier that he actually wanted to study medicine, but had only received a C+ in high school biology, and though his second choice was to pursue teaching, the church that had raised him after his parents died in an accident would only support him if he went to theology school. And thus he became ordained.

He was anything but insincere.

If he and his “evangelical” weren’t so obviously kind and clearly filled with love and goodness, I would have continued clenching my teeth and seething silently. But there is something to be said about men and women of God. When they are true, they do exude a certain sanctity of being, a certain pureness of heart. It is hard to be angry with someone who is, to put it simply, so honest. So sincere.

I have just finished reading American Pastoral and Dave is more than half way through. Philip Roth is merciless in his caricature of a Jewish Johnny Appleseed and the myth of the American frontiersman.

Maybe we all look for coherency in chaos….a coherency that is sometimes manifest as Johnny Appleseed. Or The Bearded White Man with Hazel Eyes. Or the Blue-skinned God with a Peacock Feather in His Hair.

Post-colonial Africa. Chaos and Coherency.

But in the end, to shamelessly quote Larry David:

“Whatever Works.”

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We spent the weekend around Rongo, visiting the homes different staff members of the clinic. The homes we visited were simple and clean, the meals we ate were warm and filling, the babies we played with were fat and friendly.

We always said a prayer just before a meal.

Everyone has something to say about the politics and about the post-election violence. It is still very vivid in everyone’s memory.

“It was very scary. Very scary! We had to ration our food, we could only eat two meals a day for a while.”

“I cannot stand these politicians. Do you know how much they make? Our president makes over 2.5 million Kenyan Shillings!”

That translates into about $375,000. About 1.5x what President Obama makes. The average clinical officer makes about 30,000 Ksh a month- less than $1000. Imagine feeding a family of 3 with that kind of money, let alone a family of 5.
And that is if you have a college education.

“When my brother’s kid developed hydrocephalus, I sent them to Nairobi to get evaluated. The child eventually got a shunt, but it cost 29,000 Ksh! They couldn’t afford it so the hospital refused the release them unless we paid. It cost me nearly a month’s salary, but we did it, but the grace of God, and now the child is healthy!”

By the end of the weekend, our bellies were tight and our hearts were full. But it is still tough to feel like we are part of the community. And it is hard not to feel homesick.

There are a number of ex-pats who live in this part of Kenya. It is how I had previously envisioned doing international work- living in the country where I would set things up for at least a couple of years, and bringing my family with me.

I honestly am not sure if I am really cut out for that kind of work. But I can’t imagine any other way.

We watched a documentary on these two incredible guys from Lwala, a small district in Nyanza, who managed to go to college and med school in the States and have subsequently set up this clinic in their village. Their parents died from HIV. The narrator wondered aloud if these guys would move back there permanently or if they would continue their charitable work from abroad.

It is hard to go back.

“It is hard to leave.”

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“I think this was a bad batch of lidocaine,” the clinical officer said to Dave. They were on their third circumcision of the day and noticed the men wincing and covering their eyes more than usual.

After work we went for our first run in over two weeks. About 2 minutes along the winding dirt path, we heard the first high-pitched “Mzungu! How are you!?” We soon were being chased by several children, some barefoot, others with flipflops, all under the age of 10.

Dave rolled with it gracefully. Every so often he would turn around and growl at them and they would scream and giggle in delight.

I laughed wheezily. I am still not completely over this bug.

We have been cooking every night. Dave is becoming an expert on dal with kale.

I have found refuge at Mama Pauline’s, about 500 yards from our home. I buy Cadbury’s chocolate from her every couple of days. It gives me great comfort to have a place from where I can obtain my daily sweet tooth fix. She is round and kind.

Whatever Works.

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Dave's Story

“Hi, I’m Johnson.” Thus began our intro to Kenya, off the beaten track. I accepted his offer to attend their church service this Sunday. I was a little nervous since he was just some random guy I met on the matatu (bus), but he gave off a good vibe.

Tara and I took the matatu to Uriri and then phoned Johnson by cell. After we met him we got on motorcycle taxis and started off. It was at least 15-20 minutes down a winding dirt path. We were in the boonies.

Of course they had to serve us tea before the service (along with white bread margarine sandwiches, which were better than they sound). Although, I introduced her as Dr. Tara (since they insisted on calling me Dr. Dave) she was initially, the Dr’s wife, then Tora, then Dr. Tora (which in my head, given the circumstances, became Dr. Torah).

The service was in Luo ( a local language) and parts were in English. There was always translation into the other language.
The heart of the message, seemed to be, put your trust in G-d, and if you put your trust in him you will have health, prosperity, and general success in life. Pastor Johnson, who is extremely mild and soft spoken, was transformed, during his service, into a shouting, gesticulating, pentacostal-ish madman. The minute the sermon was over, though, he was back to meek, unassuming, pastor Johnson.

The singing was beautiful, though, I couldn’t help thinking of Paul Simon’s Graceland. The harmony was breathtaking. Tara and I gave a “sermon”, wherein we discussed transmission and prevention of HIV, as well as the fact that with treatment, people can expect to live long lives.

Although they told us that our speaking was very important, the Pastor, and the evangelist, both hammered home the HIV/AIDS message and, in the end, were probably much more convincing than we were.

At the meal afterwards we were served, Chapattis (a staple here; Tara has been asked a few times, “Have you had Chapattis before”), rice, and a stew with the chicken that had been slaughtered on account of our visit. I could hear its brothers and sisters happily clucking and crowing in the yard outside. I was referred to, a number of times, as, “the first white man” to visit the church, which was altogether awkward no matter how you interpret the statement.

Other choice moments were when Tara was offered chicken, though she and I had earlier explained that she doesn’t eat meat. Earlier, that news had elicited a small amount of shock among the assembled parishoners. A second explanation of vegetarianism seemed to produce exactly the same amount of shock as the first. They also asked, “They say that when all the Jews (which they sometimes pronounced “juices”) return to Israel, that that will bring the second coming.” “Are you going to go back to Israel?” “Well, I went, and it’s very beautiful, but I didn’t stay.”

They were very hospitable, and kind. And hopefully the parishoners benefited in some way from our “sermon” and hopefully they learned and experienced as much from us as we from them.