Bribed, Floored, and More
On TheJourney . . . walking the red dirt roads of East Africa updated on Sunday, 17 Feb2013 February 2013 Have you read our latest newsletter? You can also subscribe to the newsletter. As always, we love to hear from you. Email us at creekbank.stories@gmail.com Click on image for larger view Praying for us this week: Our KiSwahili language studies. Becoming conversant in the heart languages of people opens so many doors. Pray that we will be good stewards of our time and classes. Upcoming Kenyan national election on March 4. Our school will close down for the week and we’ll go to our future home in Uganda. Pray for peace and unity after the election. How the country reacts to this election (they had violence and chaos after the previous election.) will chart the future for this country we’ve grown to love. “Bert and Ernie”*, two guards I met last week. Pray that DeDe and I will share the Good News with those in our “Life Space” this week. *Read more below Latest blog entry: Bribed and Floored “Where in the world is that English girl I promised I would meet on the third floor.” From “London Homesick Blues” by Gary P. Nunn You Tube version of London Homesick Blues by Nunn and Jerry Jeff Walker It all takes getting used to. Africa. Kenya with its British ways mixed into a bubbling dish served with East Africa ways. I smile when a tall dark Kenyan opens his mouth and “British English” flows smoothly out. They have a hard time with my “strong Southern accent” whether in English or KiSwahili. That’s what one national said, “Bwana (Mister) you have a verrrrry strong accent.” Whether it’s a compliment or not, it’s who I am. Another British way is how they number floors on a house/business. (That’s where the lyrics from London Homesick Blues come from. It’s the theme song from “Austin City Limits” as in “I wanna go home with the armadillos…”) For instance, the first floor is “the ground floor.” A local mall has a lower ground floor, ground floor, and the first floor. It’s actually the third floor. That’s explains the homesick Texan’s lament, “Where in the world is that English girl I promised to meet on the third floor?” We know where she’s at. Still waiting on the fourth (or fifth) floor. This week, I made a daring car trip into Central Nairobi. No lights, just right. Every man for himself and the shy driver gets boxed in. I grew up twenty miles from the nearest traffic light. No big deal. Folks in Nairobi can say the same thing about most of their city of 2 million plus. My car trip was to a hardware store. I’m looking for Coleman gas for my backpacking stove. (If anyone knows where some is in Central Kenya, let me know. It goes by “white gas/naptha/namna ya mafuta mepesi.” Plenty of kerosene by no Coleman fuel.) I pulled in the driveway of the building housing the hardware store. Thank you Lord for Google Maps. Of course, I pulled in the exit drive (no signs) and the guard motioned me to back out onto the street. Impossible. I tried to give him my saddest look. Even said, “I’m just a dumb American trying to figure things out.” No luck. He kept waving me back out into the fray. A second guard walked over and took charge. “Baba, you follow me.” He directed me to an angled narrow parking space and guided me in. “Assante sana, bwana. Can you tell me where the hardware store is?” He nodded. “On the first floor.” He lowered his voice. “Baba (father) will you buy me something?” “What do you want?” “Anything from the store.” He didn’t say more, but I knew he was adding non-verbally, “Get me something for helping you.” I glanced back at the car-packed street. “Sure, I’ll get you something.” I hurried into the building making an entire circuit looking for the hardware store on the first floor. No luck at all. Then I remembered where I was and climbed the stairs to the first floor. The hardware store was helpful but didn’t know what white gas/Coleman fuel was. My sketch didn’t help. I looked for a coke machine to buy something for my guard. Nothing. I went back downstairs to the first… I mean ground floor… searching for a cold drink. A bank. An electronics store. Shoe shine boys. No cokes. Then I saw the liquor store. Walking to the entrance, I saw everything but cold drinks. I walked in and there was a cold drink box. Different African sodas and Fanta. Fanta (they say it ‘F ahn ta’) orange. It’s an African favorite. I bought two. The Asian cashier eyed me carefully as she put my drinks in a paper bag with the store’s logo. I found my savior guard near my car. His eyes lit up when I pointed at him and the bag I held. His disappointment was keen when I pulled two Fanta Oranges out. I nearly laughed out loud. He recovered with “Assante Sana, Bwana” and took the bottles. He shared one with his other guard friend. They helped me back out and ran interference to get me back into the traffic. They waved as the new Mzungu (white man) crept along in his old white car (We don’t call it “The Creeker” for nothing.) I had no luck at the hardware store but made two friends. I’d paid my first Kenyan bribe (or tip as they politely call it) and felt all right about it. Seriously, our job here is the same it’s been back home. Planting seeds. One seed at a time. One smile at a time. One life at a time. Building bridges of friendship so we earn the right to talk about the reason we’re here: to brag on the Bwana Yesu Cristo. ( The Lord Jesus Christ.) I’m going to
