Although, to be fair, the picture doesn't really capture the moment very well. The storm, and it really was a storm, wasn't without it's consequences either. One of our shower enclosures blew down (whilst someone was using it...) and one of our kitchens just about keeled over. Although thankfully it wasnt my one:
However, never one to miss out on excitement around here I boldy volunteered to help Sandy clear out the food before it collapsed properly. By the end it was starting to make concerning noises at which point Sandy, who had gone outside, shouted "Kevin, get out of there!", and I had to dive out the door (which was easier said than done, given the difficult angle). You've no idea how much I'd love to tell you that the moment I got out it collapsed to the ground but I'm afraid to say it is still standing and I look significantly less macho than I may otherwise have done. What a shame.
The arrival of the rains today is, in a way, a little ironic as I was planning to write about the cronic shortage of water around here at the moment. Just about every river is dry and we are all reliant on water from the nearby borehole. Getting water from the borehole is hard work (well, it looks hard to me - I've never actually done it) and for this reason, and because we are all pretty busy, we pay a guy with a donkey cart to do it for us. Michael, also sometimes referred to as the donkey man (which I think is a little unkind...he looks nothing like a donkey) brings water 3-4 times a week:
and fills barrells dotted around our compound:
This arrangement works well for us and for him. He gets paid a princely sum for each barrell he brings and we dont have to toil in the blistering sun for which we are ill equipped.
In other news, things have changed here somewhat since I last wrote. I now have two Kenyan sidekicks working on the building project instead of one, and a whole team of Canadians who arrived yesterday to work with me for a few weeks. The challenge now is making good use of their time.
Last Sunday, a few of us travelled to a neighbouring village (called Gasmala, in case you're interested) to attend church there. I was sitting next to the pastor, a friend of mine called James. About ten minutes in to the service James leaned over to me...
"Kevin, would you like to share the message this morning?"
"I'm sorry, what!?"
"Would you like to give the message this morning?"
"...eh, ok"
And so I had to spend the next fifteen minutes coming up with something to say. Fortunately, my Arabic is still limited (which is usually a source of real frustration for me) and so I spoke through a translator. Which made the whole thing much less daunting for some reason. It seemed to go down ok too. Although maybe that was because they didn't really understand what I said!
Finally, as you know I'm not a medical man, and as such I tend to keep my distance from the clinic that operates right next to the building site (except to occasionally steal a cup of tea and a mandazi, and to say hello to my friends who work there) however every now and then I hear about something they have had to deal with there that is impossible to ignore.
This past Sunday, a mother brought her baby to the clinic. The previous evening a drunk man had come to her house and while she was not looking, picked up the baby and dropped her. On her head. By the time she reached our clinic there was nothing they could do and the baby died a short time later. I'm told the mother was understandably devestated. I think it might be just about one of the most tragic stories I've ever heard...
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