August 23: I have made a personal commitment for this post not to write more than three paragraphs of seven sentences a piece. Not including this one or the one I just wrote. I traveled to Mombasa Friday to gather supplies for the irrigation system, and then stayed through the weekend to tour around Mombasa and visit with Suzanne Jeneby, the illustrious, or at least very cool, 31 year old founder-director of the EAC. Suzanne and her Kenyan husband, Mahmud, keep a cute apartment in Mombasa, which I used as my home base for a very deliberate and detailed two day tour of Mombasa. Not that this was the highlight, but I happened to accompany Suzanne on her weekly grocery shopping outing to “Nakumatt” – a massive Wal-Mart Supercenter type complex, but with an ice cream parlor, wine and cheese shop, a shoe store, a fine furniture section, and – wonders never cease – a bridal registry!! What on earth? Meanwhile, an hour down the road in Takaungu, people are cooking on the ground over charcoal and drinking out of the rain-filled potholes in their dirt footpaths. Here, as at home, the gap between rich and poor widens, prompting a flood of nonprofits and NGOs, like the EAC, with their dozens of theories on development. It’s a really tall order, but it’s clear that at least the cities in Kenya are well on their self-guided way.

Earlier that morning, we went to Suzanne’s neighborhood Baptist church, where the service was in English, and afterwards, badge-adorned visitors were invited to the back “Visitor’s Corner” to have tea and cookies and talk with the church deacons. Now I have some pretty strong opinions on the culturally insensitive, tradition-eradicating, forced conversion strategies used by some missionaries. And there’s no doubt that this little church – with its construction, worship format, and paper bulletins identical to those of all the little churches so dear to my childhood – had the indelible stamp of a die-hard missionary. But as we sat packed in this simple church with its whitewash walls, so close to our neighbor that my arm and the girl’s arm next to me actually started sweating on each other (not sure if I’m supposed to be embarrassed about this), I felt God’s presence, and it seemed to me that the people there had willingly invited Him. I actually teared up when we sang “Blessed Assurance”, and you can be blessedly assured that I belted it out from memory as loud as possible, so that all our Kenyan brothers and sisters (in God, Allah, the spirit of the universe, or whatever other name they choose to call out) would know that we are all children of the same God, citizens of the same world, and in spite of our fascinating differences, we have some precious things in common.

A note about the irrigation system supplies: I’ll be heading back to Mombasa this week to make some exchanges. Why oh why can’t PVC manufacturers and their flex-hose counterparts get together on the task of being compatible? Why doesn’t ½” flex-hose fit in ½” PVC fittings? I’ve heard of this anomaly before, but I was hoping to circumvent it by sheer denial. At any rate, the plumber successfully installed the first tap, by way of the conventional heating a pipe in a grass fire and then poking it through the side of a tank method (seen, barely, in the pictures). The water issued forth in a gushing stream of at least 2psi, and that is momentum enough to keep me going for now.

This paragraph doesn't count: the picture on the right is of our FFS class. I'm the second one on the left. (That's a joke.)