Mission Journal Day 1 Part 1

I just had to get the story of the goat head soup posted first even though it was the last thing to happen to me on the trip. When I got back to the States everyone asked me two questions. How was your trip and did you get sick? Since everybody knows the answer to the first question, I decided to start my stories from Kenya with the answer to the second question. Starting with this post, I going to type in everything I wrote in my journal. In doing this, I will answer the first question beyond a reasonable doubt.

Mission Trip Day 1

Here we are, sitting on a Swiss Air jumbo jet, in New York waiting for our turn to take off. The captain just came over the intercom and said we were twenty-fifth in line to take a ride over the Atlantic. To save fuel, the captain explained, we have parked somewhere back from the gate in a holding area and powered down the massive engines hanging out side the tiny window I can see from my isle seat. The captain assured us that we should only have to stay in the holding area for ten or fifteen minutes and we shouldn’t be late arriving in Zurich. I hoped the captain was right because Grace and I only have about an hour to get off this plane and find the one leaving for Nairobi, Africa. It took us two hours to navigate through the crowded terminals of JFK airport to find the plane we were sitting in now. I really hoped Zurich wasn’t as easy to get lost in as JFK had been. But, I’ll write about getting lost a little later. I need to back up and start this journal entry from when I arrived at Charlotte Douglas. Things got very interesting very quickly.



When I planned for this much anticipated departure day, I figured the best place to meet Grace was at the boarding gate. The gate was the one place that we had to cross paths or come together at the airport. I was certain that we would arrive at different times and there really isn’t a good spot or landmark to meet around the endless rows of ticket counters. So, I believed the easiest place to meet would be in the waiting area of our gate.

Well, Grace informed me the Sunday before departure day that she would need me to help her check in her bags. Not only did she need some extra muscle to wrangle her bags to the ticket counter, she also needed me to claim one of them as my own. Wow, I thought, how much stuff was she going to take for two weeks? Her family still lives in Kenya and I wondered if she was taking a bag full of wonderful and exciting American merchandise home to the eagerly waiting family.

So, I wrote down Grace’s cellular phone number knowing that if we just picked a time and place someone would end up coming late or we might miss each other in the crowds of summer travelers. I believed that if I called and checked in with Grace sometime before the time we needed to be at the ticket counter I could get a better feel of the situation and make a smooth meeting.

My cellular phone idea worked. Grace was running about thirty minutes late. We had given ourselves plenty of time so thirty minutes was not a big deal. But, if I had just went to the terminal and sat around waiting for Grace not knowing how late she was going to be, I know I would have had a melt down before she arrived. I do not do very well in situations when I’m dealing with a lack of information. Heather and I sat in the cellular phone parking lot until Grace arrived.

Grace gave me a call when she turned into the entrance to the airport. We pulled out of the cellular phone lot and Heather dropped me at the curb to wait for Grace. A few moments later I saw Grace’s white mini van slide up to the drop-off area. A well executed plan for meeting in a fast moving, congested, airport terminal.

When Grace popped open the tailgate to the van, my anxiety level jumped a few notches. She dragged two large duffle bags and a bulging suitcase out onto the sidewalk. I already had my hands full with my rolling suitcase and the camera case. Before I could even think about grabbing a cart, she hailed the sky captain. Now, I don’t have much love for those uniformed cart pushers who hope to make much more than an hourly wage by carrying a few bags, maybe a hundred feet. I have also noticed that the sky captains are now charging two dollars per bag for check-in at the curb. Gut Grace said she had money so I figured I would let her run the show.

Turns out we were dropped off at the opposite end of the area designated for U.S. Airways. And, our sky captain couldn’t check in an international ticket at the curb. He would have to walk us in. Oh boy, here we go. Let our information deficit start draining our pocket in five, four, three, two, one seconds.

I thought maybe since he didn’t check us in at the curb we wouldn’t have to pay the two dollars per bag. We would just give him a tip and wait in line for the next available ticket clerk. How dumb was that? He dropped the bags and asked for “two dollars a bag”. Grace started counting out dollar bills and discovered she was two dollars short. She started to go digging in her bag for more cash, but in the interest of time, I jumped in and handed the man a twenty.

Uh oh, I must interrupt my story because the captain just came over to the intercom and said, “ladies and gentlemen, it is just one of those days here at JFK that requires a little patience by everyone”. We have been sitting in line to depart for close to an hour now. We have only moved from the twenty-fifth to the fifteenth in line. With only an hour to connect in Zurich I’m getting a sinking feeling that we may be staying in Zurich a little longer than planned. At the very least, our bag may not make it to Nairobi when we do. Ah, the joys of flying. Now back to our regularly scheduled program already in progress.

I handed the man a twenty because I wanted to get through security as soon as possible. In the past it has taken me a little longer to get through security because of the camera equipment. TSA likes to swab everything down to check for explosive residue. Against my better judgment, I tipped the guy because I know they expect it. I know I didn’t have to but for some reason, I care what the dude thinks about me even if I will never see him again. I’m not very thick-skinned am I?

Now we are at the ticket counter waiting in a very short line. I start to think we are going to get through this phase of our journey with some time to spare at the gate. That’s when Grace starts to wonder, out loud, if the massive bags at her feet are over the weight limit. “If they are”, she says to me, “we are going to have to take the stuff out”.

Oh boy, another situation that could eat up a ton of time and cause us to miss our flight. I have seen this happen before. My best friend, Jeff, and his new wife came to visit from Florida last year. They drove up in a rental car, but decided to fly back. I took them to the airport and watched as they had to somehow divide one enormous and overweight bag into something they wouldn’t have to fork over extra cash to get on a plane. The airline gave them a cardboard box and some packing tape.

Thank God, the captain just informed us that we would take off in two minutes. It’s only an hour and a half later than the original departure time so I guess we should consider ourselves lucky to get out of New York in a semi-timely fashion.

I have to say it was quit entertaining to watch my best friend Jeff and his wife dig clothes out of the over-weight bag and pack them into a cardboard box while impatient travelers pushed passed them to get to the ticket counter. I remember thinking to myself, man I’m glad I do not have to deal with a situation like that. Now I stood in the line wondering if I was going to beg the clerk at the counter for a cardboard box.

Tune in next week to see if we made our flight…

GOAT HEAD SOUP

I woke up in the darkest hour of the night shivering so violently the bedsprings sounded like they were squeaking out the Hallelujah chorus. But I was in Kenya, Africa just south of the equator. The temperature outside sat at about seventy-five degrees everyday. All week I have slept in a tee shirt and shorts with just a sheet for a cover. But tonight I’m groping for the wool blanket and coverlet I’ve thrown over to the other side of the bed. Why was I suddenly so cold?

I also noticed I was covered in sweat. Did I have a fever? Had I caught the dreaded Typhoid fever? It was my last night in Kenya and I thought I had caught Typhoid fever. I immediately slapped my hand to my forehead to feel the excessive heat radiating out from my head. Surprisingly, my head felt cool. Well, if my head wasn’t as hot as an oven then I guess I didn’t have Typhoid. But, other parts of my body were warmer than usual or I wouldn’t have been sweating. My joints ached and I felt light headed. This sounded more like the Flu. How could I have the flu when I haven’t worn a coat the entire time I’ve been here?

My gut wretched. It felt like someone was twisting my stomach as if they were trying to ring water out of a washcloth. I clutched my middle with both arms and pulled my knees up to my chest. In that instant I knew why I was sick.

Tonight was the final night of our ten-day mission trip to Kenya. To celebrate the close of our mission, Poppa Gloria purchased a goat head to serve as the main course of our farewell dinner. Now, I have to stop and explain two things here. First I must explain to you Americans why my host had a female name. Get out your notepad. This will be on the test of African customs. Our host’s English name is Walter. But in the village where we were staying, no one calls Walter by his English name. They call him Poppa Gloria. He named his first-born child Gloria. So according to custom, you address the head of the household using “Poppa” and add the name of his first-born child. For example, my first-born child is Nathan. If I lived in this village, the folks here would call me Poppa Nathan. I guess you better think long and hard about what you name your child because you are essentially naming yourself.

Secondly, Kenyan’s consider goat the finest dish you serve to your guests. If you have invited guests to your home to celebrate a special occasion, you serve them goat. If you do not serve goat than you will offend your guest and they may tell others that you are cheap and stingy.

The mission team was invited as guest at several special events. I became quite familiar with many different goat dishes. My taste buds actually accepted goat with open arms. The texture and flavor of the meat reminded me of the lamb meat I experienced in the Middle East. Most of the time hosts would serve us goat ribs, or goat leg. But, gnawing the meat off a rib bone was a lot different than popping a chunk of boiled goat tongue into your mouth. The Kenyan’s don’t waste any part of the animals they eat. Poppa Gloria carved up the goat’s ears, cheeks, and tongue and set the meat out on a large platter. When he had finished carving, he brought the platter over and set it down right in front of me.

“Ken,” he said with a broad smile. “Go ahead and have a piece.”

I have read that you always eat what a host offers you in a foreign country so that you will not offend the gracious host. Like I said, I have already eaten tons of goat meat in the past several days so I figured eating parts of the animal I wouldn’t normally eat wouldn’t bother me. Only two days ago I had devoured grilled goat intestines in front of a group of Kenyan men watching to see if my face would contort in disgust at the taste. But that is a story for another time. My point is that over the week I have tried some pretty exotic foods and none of them have upset my innards.

Without hesitation I plucked a few chunks off of the platter and popped them into my mouth. It tasted just like all of the other pieces of meat I’ve been consuming over the last week. The texture was a bit softer than the muscle meat, but nothing that invoked my gag reflex. I thought I had passed my final exotic foods test. Then Poppa Gloria set a steaming cup of goat head soup on the table in front of me.

Oh man. This was it. The ultimate in gross-out cuisine. If we had already eaten all the meat off the skull, then there was only one edible part of the head left: Goat brain. I stared down at the cup knowing that I was not going to be able to drink the boiled remains of an animal head. Poppa Gloria stood over me smiling as if he had just served me the world’s finest chocolate. I could tell from his expression that he expected me to thoroughly enjoy this local delicacy. He would surly be disappointed if I didn’t even take a sip.

Without reserve, I grabbed the cup and lifted it to my mouth. I took a big gulp hoping that whatever my taste buds decided, they wouldn’t cause me to spit the soup out across the table and onto Poppa Gloria. The fluid filled my mouth and I pushed it down my throat. Words can’t describe the amplified signals my taste buds were sending to my brain. It was as if my taste buds were under attack by an enemy that wanted to destroy all sensations of what was pleasant and enjoyable to my mouth.

When the fluid fell into my belly, I could feel my stomach reach up and grab my brain around the brain steam and say, “If you ever send something that disgusting down here again, I will gather up all the nerves I can find in this body and squeeze them as hard as I can until you cry for mercy.”

I looked up at Poppa Gloria and said, “I’m sorry but I do not like this.”

His smile never wavered. He told me he was happy I had tried as many different parts of the goat as I had. He made me feel as if I had earned his respect in giving the soup an honest try. Thank God I hadn’t offended my host.

Later in the night my digestive tract was totally offended by my willingness to shove everything I was offered into my gullet. I ran to the bathroom and sat on the toilet in the dark for a very long time. The next day all the muscles in my body ached. My stomach refused to accept even a simple piece of toasted bread. My brain felt as if I had caught a computer virus, which slowed down all my bodily functions. I was a wreck.

On this last day of my trip I had planned to go shopping for souvenirs and gifts for the family. The other half of the mission team left early in the morning and we didn’t have to board the plane headed for Europe until late in the evening. This was the only free day of my entire trip and I was barely able to move. I managed to function just enough to find gifts for the family. I could not come home empty handed. Then I slept until our ride came to take us to the airport.

I’m just thankful that the dreaded stomach rebellion came at the end of my trip instead of incapacitating me when I needed to perform my mission from God behind the lenses.