What If

What if I cry when I see you
For something lost
That wasn't mine
And that I did not mislay

What if I cry when I see you
Because my heart
Doesn't know how to be a grown-up
And because your name hurts in my mouth

Trees are for Reading

Heather Chops it Off

Miss Heather decided to get her hair cut and to donate her ponytail to Wigs for Kids. Wigs for Kids is an organization in Michigan that makes and donates wigs for children who have lost their hair, primarily due to cancer treatment. Lots of people these days are taking the chop and giving it away.


Ali makes the cut!


Woot woot! Now, to shape it...


Heather is lovin' it :-)

Beige--the Color of My Adventure

"Oh, Lisa, why so beige?"

I'm standing in the bathroom at the hotel in town where I'll catch my shuttle to Nairobi and OH MY GOODNESS, I'm totally beige! I'm wearing a light brown t-shirt and skirt, which both kind of weirdly match my hair and skin. I've never noticed before that i look all one color. I glance down and see my black sandals. Phew! I've broken up the beigeness with a bold and daring... black? Boring. I am one big blob of medium bland. But maybe that's not so bad. As my dear Mindy has famously said before, "Might as well start out with khaki in Africa because it will all be khaki soon enough."

Well, the bus ride unfolds into 6 hours of travel, alternating between a few scenarios. We have bumps and potholes. We have crazy lorries that we have to swerve away from. We have the counter-swerve to keep us on the road after we miss the lorry. We have the clouds of dust that are billowing through the bus, and the tourists who are yelling at people to close their windows. We have the stifling heat when the windows are closed too long and the tourists who are now instructing people to open their windows. Bossy tourists, I note. We have the shady characters who want to change my money at the border. We have the tired looking customs officials whom I don't want to cross.

We have quite a lot going on.

Besides all this, we have the growing panic in my chest that this might finally be the trip when I do actually miss my plane because the shuttle is taking longer and longer these days. We have my desperate repetitive and somewhat ridiculous prayers asking the Lord to get me there and to chill me out.

I would have liked to listen to music but ha ha! I can't see what's written on the tiny screen of my iPod when I can't hold the thing anywhere close to still. I opt to just observe my fellow travelers and fret a little.

Did I already mention it was 6 hours of this?

So, we get there... The lovely Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. In time, too. I pull off my dusty sandals and change into proper closed toe shoes for (cold) England. I stuff the Chacos into my case as I wait to check in.

Through security and upstairs, I make my way to the cafe. A large cup of hot Kenyan tea soothes and comforts and I feel better, even in the crowded and stuffy departure area. I'm here.

OK, we're going to have to clean up a little. In the ladies room, I find that my comb can't actually get through my (beige) hair. It's crusted over... Become crunchy with the sweat and frequent powderings of dust. I kind of scrape the comb around a little and clip my hair up again. Crunch, crunch. I pull on jeans and shove my skirt in my carry-on.

I'll wash my face--even though the signs tell me to only wash my hands. The attendant is there, annoyed with some women in long burkhas who don't know how to flush the loos. It's not their fault. It's not her fault. And we don't need to be annoyed. I wash my face anyway, figuring it's pretty obvious I'm not preparing for prayers and I'm not going to splash everywhere.

I also wash my sunglasses which are black, but are covered in a thick coat of beige. However did that happen?

I'm finally on-board and we're taking off around midnight. I usually like the chance to watch some films I haven't seen. I like to clean out my in-box and maybe read. But no, not tonight.

I'm out. I wake up for a few mins to eat dinner and then again for my breakfast. The nice steward is serving me tea and it's not as good or as hot as my Kenyan brew last night, but that's ok. I've got Houston's Three Feet From Gold on my headphones and I'm soon going to land in London. I'll have time to shower and pop round to the shops before making some final notes for my teaching time that night.

I come to a pleasant little realization. I really love my friends in 24-7. Why else would I put myself through this? :-)

Little Rays of Hope

Mr. Ndetu is our night guard. I like him a whole lot.

I like him a whole lot and wish, for his sake, that he had a better job than guarding our house at night.

That's how security works in many parts of Africa. There is no 911 or 999 to call and security is the responsibility of the private citizen. We hire Mr. Ndetu. He arrives on his bicycle to our house at about 5:30 p.m. and he leaves again next morning some time between 5:30 and 6:00 a.m.

During the hours between, he hangs out. He visits with Byron if Byron is puttering in the veggie garden or in the work-shop. He helps us feed the dogs and rabbits and is generally a pleasant, if very subtle, presence. He brings his pack dinner and every night, before I go to bed, I make him a thermos of chai. I'm sure he dozes off from time to time. He also tells the dogs to stop harassing hedgehogs.

Ndetu takes his work seriously. When Byron and the kids were away and I was home alone, I got a bad flu that knocked me out. He knew I was sick and so he didn't leave in the morning till he saw that I was up, even though that was about 3 hours later than when he would have normally headed for home.

"Just wanted to know that you were alright," he told me.

Ndetu's daughter just passed her exams and has been admitted to secondary school. Surprised, he went to see her teachers. A pass is, truly, no small accomplishment and her teachers shocked him further with the news that she passed easily. She's a strong student. He just didn't know it.

Secondary school will cost him. There are all manner of hidden fees that seem small to us, but are overwhelming to a family like Ndetu's.

Byron asked Ndetu if he wanted this for his daughter. We know that Ndetu's own father did not sent him to school because someone needed to herd the cattle. He has told Byron that, sadly, herding didn't take him very far in life. The cows are gone now and here he is, staying up all night to make a living.

"I'm a good worker, " he said.

"People like me. I could have a much better job in life if I could read and write. Yes, I want this for her."

Together, they worked out a way to make it happen.

"You're giving your daughter what your father couldn't give you," Byron told him.

"You're a good dad."

So much struggle in Africa.

One young girl I know is taking a step forward.

Little rays of hope for tomorrow.

Just to say...

The holiday season has been full and very sweet. Too full and too sweet to blog.

I am flat-out exhausted from the break, which seems a little silly, but is true none-the-less.

Will be posting a nice photo-log update soon.

xx