Kenya: Thousands of Miles: Traveling to Foreign Fields

(word count 2116)

Covering Sunday June 8th-9th, 2008

Revelation 14:6

Then I saw another angel flying in midair, and he had the eternal gospel to proclaim to those who live on the earth—to every nation, tribe, language and people.

I was going insane. It was unfathomable to me how a plane could last forever; I was wide awake staring at the infinitesimal television screen before me. At some odd hour in the morning, we finally arrived in Amsterdam. It seemed too surreal to finally be in another continent after so many years of dreaming about the world.

We found our gate for Nairobi, then we were exasperated by the exchange rate for Euros, and then we attempted to open the mysterious lockers that had Dutch instructions.

Somehow, this process took over two hours. I was yawning more than breathing, but at the same time I thought I may never see the Netherlands again. I was trying to make the most of it-- while not collapsing to the floor and just letting someone carry me to my plane seat (I knew no one would do that). I finally came to a decision after the security check: I decided I would stay with the group that would tour the Netherlands. Our missionary leaders Sevo and Kristina, along with their seven month old Imani, stayed at the airport.

Our first purchase: one round trip ticket each for the Amsterdam train. I will mention here that nothing we did at the airport was instantly done, everything was a gruesome ordeal. The train system was surprisingly enchanting. In all honesty, I had no clue what was happening-- I think I may have been delirious. I figured in such a large group it was better to let someone else's brain do the thinking, especially since I was so tired that I could barely complete a full sentence-- more like I would ramble about pretzels and other such wonders of the tired mind. I was not sure if to others I was being a vexatious pest, but I know for sure that I was greatly annoying myself. Being both tired and hungry is a lousy combination. Also, I was blue because since the plane departed two hours late, and the Amsterdam airport was much larger than I expected, and most importantly, I had no way of contacting my Dutch friend. I did not get to see him after all. I felt like if I could just think of something-- anything-- I might have been able to contact him; I just didn't know how.

While looking out the window of the train I began to paint a picture in my mind of what life must have been like for him-- well at least the background-- and how living in Europe, or any place, shapes people. It was the first time I looked at myself and realized I am an American; I think only when you are outside your home do these things finally make sense. I wanted to blend with the crowd. I stuck out terribly, and what upset me was that I didn't even know how-- which was a scary thought, to know people around you know you are American and not knowing how they do. The littlest things about ourselves speak volumes of truths: the way we walk, the way we speak, the way we dress is all so collectively different that it tells its own story. Maybe, if I was by myself I wouldn't stick out so much but neither did I want to be by myself or did I even want to be on that quiet train.

That's what made it seem ghastly different to me. It was deathly quiet. Even on the American Coach bus to Epcot with fellow college program students, all the people from various origins and countries, the radio, the air conditioner-- there was always some noise; there was something different in the air. I can't put my finger on it, and I don't dare discover it and write it on paper.

The sun beamed through the window while the buildings sprung into the landscape, sometimes there was a masterpiece of interesting graffiti in Dutch-- or maybe another language? To my regret, I took no pictures in Amsterdam. While sitting on the train, I remembered a short film I had seen only a handful of days before heading to Kenya.

It's called "Strangers." An Israeli boards a train along with a Pakistani and they sit across from each other. A group of terrorists board the train and begin to assault the Pakistani. The Israeli and the Pakistani work together to escape the terrorists, and then they go their separate ways. What I was astounded by was how the directors of this film used audio to direct the story's motion.

Granted, for those of you who watched the film, nothing like that happened during my stay in Amsterdam.

We went into the streets looking for ways to buy our time. Countless people moved in all directions. Posters of American bands spread across building walls, fences, and dumpsters. Bicycles were in more numbers than people. My professor Baumlin was right, "Don't you dare walk in the red roads!" I took her advice, and was miraculously never hit by a bike.

Pot, sweat, and dust intermingled-- along with its noxious scent-- in the air. Cigarettes, bongs, and the like were in heaps on the ground. People gathered around apartments and the nearby courtyards to talk openly; they were even talking openly to the drunkards that were lost in the streets who would normally be passed by or hidden from sight when in the Midwest-- I'm thinking we may have too much pride. Graffiti danced its way into every crack, crevice, and creation.

The commercial area was filled with shops. The best way I can describe the onslaught of tourist products is: a sixth grade boy's fantasy land. There was the occasional post card with Jesus with blood shot eyes and some strange witticism written in Dutch that would make my eye twitch, but for the most part I found a lot of the material to be so over done that it was comedic. One of my best friend's would have been ecstatic; simply because, there was a plethora of things she could have used with that creative mind of hers to make the best pranks-- and playful revenges. It does get rather old, I mean when it comes to the point that salt and pepper shakers are made to look like various private body parts, it just becomes silly, not obscene.

The pinnacle of oddities in Amsterdam was that in some of what I perceived to be display cases to the stores was people: people smoking pot. Maybe I'm completely wrong and it just looked like what I'm used to seeing as display cases. But I did think it was odd that a person would sit in such a small place to advertise what was obviously happening everywhere.

We stopped at a small diner to eat. Our waitress said she only knew a little Dutch. She gave us peanut butter sauce to try on our fries-- that's all the rage in the Netherlands. The most entertaining part to me was Dutch TV. I've never had acid-- well any drug-- but the channel was stuck on Dutch MTV, of course MTV in America is bizarre, but this is what I would imagine an explosive acid trip to be. It was so strange that I was compelled to watch it. In one moment little cartoon chickens would be running around a cactus and then they would all explode, and maybe it would have helped if I knew at least one word in Dutch. A song came on that was incredibly and horrifically catchy-- it was ironic the words that were getting stuck in some of our mission team's minds. I was curious to know what else was on TV.

We were there for only a moment at the diner-- where the only real differences were that: water had a price, you had to ask for ice, and you ate your fries with peanut butter sauce. A couple of us peeked into the McDonalds, just to see if it was different; well the food items had different names with high prices, so if that counts, then by all means yes. We headed back to the airport and caught a glimpse of a bike rack overloaded with hundreds of bikes.

I had lost track of how many hours it had been since I was in Springfield asleep. When we were finally back to our gate for Kenya, I knew that I needed to surrender myself to that much needed sleep. It was like fighting a lion with no hands. I realized even though I shouldn't be talking, because I may end up saying something painfully bizarre or I'll end up offending somebody and not realizing it till later, I could not keep my mouth shut. I think most people were on the same page with me. I think we were disoriented with our stay in Amsterdam, United Way, and the ghastly seven hour time difference. I drastically needed something to drink but I wasn't willing to pay 4 Euros for one (meaning 8 American dollars). That's beyond absurd-- regardless that it's an airport. I attempted to learn more Swahili but eventually, I joined in with the happy-go-lucky conversations on chick flicks, something about psychology, and the one that gave me the name "Dr. Mom."

I don't know why I kept doing this, but I kept telling Weston to go see a doctor, on many, oh so many occasions throughout the entire trip. First, it was for his ear. He said he could only hear 50% in one ear. I told him it was easy to fix, actually I've had that problem before so I don't know, I mean with the ear. I just kept arguing about things that were pointless. I mean, yes, he should take care of his ear, but I'm not his doctor, in fact he barely knew me so it was just unusual that I kept doing that. But eventually, I thought it was funny so throughout the trip whenever something arose, I chimed in with assorted health tips-- without caring whether it was necessary.

After what seemed like a long awaited miracle, we were boarding our plane. I was so eager to go. As soon as I was in my seat I closed my eyes. There were too many little noises and things happening that prevented that long awaited slumber. I was on the verge of screaming into a pillow-- to be honest, I might have. Just as I was catching some z's one of the flight attendants sneaked their way to me and asked if I would like a hot towel. I nearly had a heart attack. They were so polite and quiet (which shocked me enough), but to be so close to dream land made it surprisingly violent in my heart. I took that towel and rubbed it all over my face. I drifted again, but I don't think I ever truly went to sleep; sadly, I was deficient at sleeping on planes this time. The movies on this plane intrigued me; one was from India and I had never seen a Bollywood flick so I gave it a chance. It definitely helped making stay up a little more interesting-- especially with all the fast paced music.

April, one of the closet friend's I have, saw me watching Om Shanti Om and made one of the most stupefied faces I have ever seen. I told her she should watch it, but it takes time to appreciate the new.

The Kenya airlines service was top notch. I had no idea that flying could be so comfortable. It was unbelievable. The meals were exquisite for airplanes, and the Kenyan tea was a nice touch. I rarely heard any noise from the flight attendants. I changed my attitude from there-- regardless of the fact that I had been awake for an unnatural amount of hours. I listened to Chinese instrumental pop on the radio; anything unusual caught my curiosity. International planes are much more interesting.

It seemed like my whole life had been on a plane. I feel like this journal is doing justice of how long the wait was to finally arrive to the much anticipated final destination. That might not be a good thing, however.