(From left: Jake Schmitt, Channele Givargis, Jordan Fath, Bishop Moses, Brandon Boyd, Pastor Daniel)
This blog is entitled as an exposé; however, I’m pretty much disregarding most of the AP Style rules, however all those professional journalists who read my blog can forgive my casualness. All in all, this will illuminate who we live with, and what we’ve been doing in Kenya.
Bishop Moses Wamalwa Khaemba, 45, is our main contact in Kitale, Kenya. His family of seven, two adopted, has been an extraordinary blessing to our team, and we have experienced amenities we did not expect to have in Africa. Our expectation was lack of internet, running water, electricity, and food as bland as poi. Instead, we have an internet stick that we share among the five of us, hot water, electricity that occasionally flickers, and great food.
The four weeks we will spend in Kenya will be with Bishop Moses and his family. He is one of the most authentic men I have ever met, and his faith is unshakeable. He believes wholeheartedly in the power of prayer, and instead of merely praying passionately, he begins, ends and lives each day in prayer. To him, prayer is a “shield and a weapon,” that Christians must hold at the ready.
Bishop Moses is also a man of great humility. He knows his limitations and the blessings that have been poured over him, and thanks God for them. His churches are called New Life, and he is in charge of 78 in Kenya, and 33 in Uganda.
We have gone to a different church each week, and he endeavors to maintain a personal presence as often as possible. Many are more than an hour outside of town, with those in Uganda obviously being further. While he has countless pastors and associates underneath him in title, his exchanges with each gives the impression they are all friends and peers rather than “boss” and “employee.”
He considers himself a “coordinator of God’s functions,” and says his greatest limitations are financial support and exposure. Further, some of his pastors have inadequate training, though they are trying to remedy that.
His biggest request is for more partners, prayerfully and financially, whether domestic or abroad. Churches that seat almost 300 members an be constructed for roughly 130,000 K Sh (shilling), though they are merely iron sheets. He has been constructing a church of brick and steel for nearly five years that has cost over 2 million K Sh.
He began preaching in 1987 at a funeral. Like most funerals, a pastor is required to speak before the casket is lowered into the ground, and the pastor arranged for this funeral failed to show. The gathered kept looking around for someone to speak, so Bishop Moses decided to speak, and preached from Acts 17 about how we have no choice but to repent or perish. After that day, he was sure of his calling.
Our weeks are governed by ministry chosen. The first week, we spent time at an orphanage and school called Haven, and met some incredible kids and faculty under the direction of a pastor named Simon Wafula and his wife, Liz. Viewing teammate Channele Givargis’ blog, here, offers a great look into that particular ministry. I was personally surprised that I found a fondness for teaching, and could maybe even see myself teaching in the highschool or even collegiate sectors. In addition, we spent two days praying at a hospital with a pastor named Daniel.
The second week, Bishop Moses took us to a local church under the direction of Pastor Sammy Aswani, an extremely charismatic man who led us in door-to-door evangelism. Jake Schmitt and I, together with two members of the church, Esther and Bennard, walked for literally miles to meet with members, and those who did not know Jesus.
At first it could only be describe as awkward, not knowing what to say or how to say it, and their being an expectation placed on us that we would fall naturally into a groove. The people were so welcoming that that’s exactly what happened. The ice was broken by Jake and I struggling to learn Kiswahili phrases and being laughed at for mispronunciation, or jovial laughs when we got it right.
This is the third week of ministry in Kenya, and we spent the day walking around Kitale town itself, talking and sharing the gospel with people. “Those who are not in God’s kingdom are in the Devil’s kingdom, whether they know it or not. The Devil uses people in many ways. So, what we are doing today is an invasion into another kingdom,” Bishop Moses said at the beginning of our day. While it may seem like an intense statement, it set a tone for the day that what we were doing was incredibly meaningful.
The streets were caked in mud from the daily rain, and the five of us were like flecks of sugar in coffee. Almost immediately, kids who live on the street attached themselves to us, and we began talking to them about trivial things, as well as what we were doing in Kenya. Jake and I were partnered again. The kid who walked with us at the beginning gave an almost rehearsed answer of "Jesus is Lord" when Jake asked if he knew about Jesus. Most of the time, the kids did not know enough English to be able to speak with any measure of depth, but the older kids were able to. We often bribed our words into their ears with 10 K Sh bags of popcorn.
Jake had mentioned seeing french fries on his last visit to Kitale town with Brandon, so we started heading in that direction. We were nearing the place when the french fries were, my intention to buy a healthy portion and devour them as quickly as possible, but two street kids attached themselves to us and began begging for food. Neither spoke much English, and the fries were expensive, so we tried to assure them that we had nothing to offer them but friendship.
In truth, I was willing to pay whatever price for the french fries, even if they were stale and soggy, but the sight of the two kids destroyed that desire. I haven't had french fries in a month, who knows how long it's been since they have had a full meal. Jake was extremely patient, and the kids walked with us for nearly 15 minutes, begging the whole way until we had to more intensely say we couldn't offer them anything.
White people are dollar signs in Africa, and it is hard to break that mentality. Many of the people on the street we spoke to, including a group of probably 8 older teenagers, were either high on glue or drunk from gin. They used the glue to feel the sensation of warmth to shield them from the cold of rain, and in the end got addicted. The guys spoke good English, and we told them why we were in Kenya, but they mostly wanted to discuss who our favorite soccer teams are.
It's sometimes hard to feel compassion for people who are offered a way out of their addiction, and choose it instead of changing. It's equally frustrating to try and offer love to kids who only need to hear a refusal to give them money or food to be convinced that you don't love them.
That's all for now, when I have a few hours to kill with the internet stick, I'll be able to post a photo blog, and I'm looking forward to being able to share more of the people who we have come in contact with. Thank you for your prayers and support, I miss you all. I think about home every other moment, and think about Western food in between those moments. God bless.
I just wanted to wish you a happy mother's day in a very public way. I obviously would prefer to be able to wish you happy mother's day in person, but it seems we're going to have to wait a few more months to be able to hug each other.
So far, Kenya has been incredible. The team is strong, and the people are amazing. Our contact, Bishop Moses, is a great man, and we have received blessing after blessing in the form of food, comfort, and welcoming. He is a great contact to have, because his love for his country and his people is so evident.
But enough about me! I am so fortunant to have you as a mother. It may seem reticent, but that's because it's such a shame that it's taken so long to truly appreciate the influence you've had in my life. It seems that it's only when one's far removed from home that they realize what an impact home has had in making them into the people they are. The few among the Race who have met you, and friends from home, have constantly pointed out how many of my traits, physical and otherwise, remind them of you and Dad.
I consider this a fortunant occurance. You have many of the characteristics I wish I could emulate to a stronger degree. You live your life with kindness, patience, courage of conviction, and wisdom. You truly care for those around you. You empathize and sympathize in a way that can truly affect you, and amazing. You pour into people who in the end don't deserve it, and while you may even suspect it, you never stop loving them and investing in them.
Happy mother's day, Beth Dale. I am truly lucky to be able to wish that to you, and from Kitale, Kenya, no less.
Dappled sunlight lay upon the carpet, its efforts to brighten the bleak room hindered by the glass whose translucence was being threatened by a growing level of dirt upon its face. Red carpets gave way to red plastic chairs which hosted a community of the discontent. The color was appropriate for the evening’s plans. War was upon us. While we were strangers in a far off land that was not our own, our belief in our cause was as vehement as those we waged war upon.
We were invading the territory of those selected adversaries, encroaching upon their homeland and feeling the resistance each night as sweet sleep pulled our weary, battle-worn eyelids down over our eyes. Those eyes hosted a steely determination; a determination that would lead to eventual victory. A restlessness; however, accompanied those scant periods of sleep.
Often, night attacks were staged by the Resistance. Those brief hours of sleep were interrupted by the nagging sensation that the enemy was rising against us. The pellucid screams of the dying, along with the moaning cadence of their funeral rites echoed in our ears as we tossed in our sleep. When we woke, our bodies hosted the effects of our war: weary muscles, tired eyes and physical trauma gave our pristine chalky skin a mottled hue; red upon it like the carpet, akin to the blood often spilt in war.
Pallid expressions graced our faces as we examined ourselves, and a new fervor was welling up inside us. We would have victory, regardless the cost. Though legions may rise against us, and even invade our temporary home, we would drive them back with the force of our conviction.
Dissension reverberated often, its pear-shaped tones sweet honey to some ears and an efficacious poison to others. The war we were fighting was breaking the willpower of the weak, and testing the lingering resolve of the strong. When it seemed that hope was lost, that the darkness around us was finally closing in and had permeated every fiber of our resolve, we heard the peal of reinvigoration.
Our greatest weapon was finally realized, and when I gripped the slender, metallic cylinder, I knew that victory was at hand. Reconnaissance missions began, searching for those avenues in which the Resistance had gained purchase in the home that had once provided solace. The cracks in our defenses were found, and they were alarmingly numerous. We watched the Legions of Resistance trickle in before our eyes, their efforts so brazen that they did not even wait for the cover of darkness to begin their assault. The walls around us, which had once been labeled strong, were seen as they truly were: the staging area for the Resistance. And, if complacency inhabited our hearts any longer, our demise.
While taught to walk in peace, the affront was too great. Our bodies had been weakened by weeks of fighting. The muscles we hosted were taut, ready for the final onslaught. Slinking toward our destinies, we raised the Cylinder, the weapon of mass destruction we had bought for a meager price from merchants who confirmed our fears of it being easily accessible. We aimed with malicious intent, watching the Legion pour into our very lives, the imagined the ringing of laughter, taunting us with each passing moment. They were inhabiting our safe place with a pervading sense of arrogance that tested and exceeded our patience.
We fired.
Noxious justice rained down like flames from Heaven, passing through the sturdy constitution of our enemy as easily as loving admonitions pass from the Father’s lips.
There was no sound.
No mournful screams of agony or Death manifested reached our ears. Justice was that quick. As soon as the strength of our resolve reached their bodies, they fell in droves. A satisfying number of bodies fell from the cracks in our strong walls, the red carpet accepting the dead with an alarmingly quiet ease.
The stench permeated the room, the smell of death and chemical warfare unleashed assaulting our nostrils. It was the price we would pay for victory, we would have to endure the lingering consequence of our actions for at least a minute or two. We retired the Cylinder, placing it high upon a mantle, agreeing unanimously to only use it in the most dire of circumstances. Together we celebrated our great victory, along with the hope and peace that had been restored to our place of tranquility and solace.
I stood over one of the Fallen, its body curled grotesquely, its stomach seeming distended, and did not mourn. I would not mourn the death of this fallen adversary, or the millions of others that would have unmarked graves among the inviting threads of red carpet. The Legions of Ants had been defeated, and we laid down for sleep, knowing that it would only be a matter of time before they grew strong again.
We woke, our sleep again brief and restless, our bodies ravaged by another repugnant foe: Mosquitoes! We would have to ready our nets for their future bombardments.
We are taught that those who live by the sword die by the sword, but the Legions are many, and we have many foes left to vanquish before our sword arms can rest.
~B-Squad Manistry Month, Gua Musang, Malaysia 2012
Sometimes you have to fabricate the humor, even dark, when Life is adamant about not offering any.
The two monolithic limestone mountains greeted us as we stepped from the train early in the morning. Their deeper recesses shielded from the harsh scrutiny of sun and tourists by draped foliage. The jungle was clinging to these structures with a waning fervor, the encroaching presence of man pushing the jungle's front back with each year. These particular mountains it sheltered in its embrace, the undergrowth blocking any effort to reach and conquer these natural giants.
Gua Musang, a sleepy town 8 hours north by train from Kuala Lumpur, was going to be the location of "Manistry Month," the month where the guys on B-Squad come together for wild boar hunts, warpaint and jungle excursions. The daunting structures and the caves within them we were promised seemed to be the serious answer to a joke we had said on the way in.
In Kuala Lumpur, we watched Hunger Games and ate at Chili's, Wendy's and Burger King at one of the city's 14 story malls. Some people enjoyed an amusement park inside the mall itself, complete with a roller coaster. A few friends of mine utilized the indoor archery range that was right next door to the indoor bowling alley. Crazy, huh?
We met our contact, Kumar, at the train station. He was accompanied by Brandon Forshall of X-Squad, a welcomed surprise. It seemed that we would be spending the first week with a team from this Squad. They were finishing month 9, and were able to share a little bit about their experiences. Swapping stories became a good pastime, and it was a great comfort to be able to share some of the stories that are only truly funny to other Racers.
It's a fraternity of sorts, being a part of the World Race. Everyone has stories about the things they seen along the way, and while we can share them with people from home, only a Racer truly has the perspective necessary to grasp the emotions and significance. We can translate the danger, the struggle, the raw emotional exchange that have become indelible marks upon our lives with as many gilded words as we wish, but understanding comes from experience.
It may be a bit premature to talk about sharing stories with people from home, though. I still have 5 more months before that really happens. But still, I'm preparing myself to treat those exchanges with a grain of salt, as suggested, because it just won't hit home the same way. And that's okay. It may sound... belittling to suggest such a thing, but I think wisdom would tell those reading that I'm right. In the end, we have a plethora of great stories, and we relay them to the best of our ability. Some are better at it than others.
Before I talk more about what we're doing, Gua Musang is to be treated much like Vietnam. That being said, we've thoroughly enjoyed teaching English here.
It's Friday in Gua Musang, and the beginning of the weekend here. The town is pretty dead. Friday is a day of prayer for the Muslim community, which is nearly the entire population. While being a Christian is perfectly fine, spreading it is severely punished. Imprisonment is the most basic of punishments, and political force is being mustered to pass Sharia laws, the same legal code which would allow stoning to death and cutting off the hand of a thief.
The town is comprised of Malaysian, Chinese-Malaysian, and Indian-Malaysians. It's pretty easy to distinguish between them, mostly due to the presence of Saris or not.
We live in a couple rooms above a motoshop. They are recent additions to Kumar's properties, and he plans to use the room to house future teams. The rooms are pretty bare, mostly due to them recently being added. We have a dart board in one and a recently acquired shelf and table. Each room has a ceiling fan, which is a huge comfort. Malaysia can be stifling hot, and humid. Not quite as bad as Georgia or Florida, where you can literally feel the moisture on your arms when you walk outside, but it's not far off. The sun rises directly in front of us, between the aforementioned limestone mountains, and behind us. We have a window to view each, and I'll get pictures of them as soon as possible.
Kumar runs an English center, which teaches locals ages 5 to 20 and some adults English. The Malaysian school system flip-flopped from teaching the Malaysian language to English, then back and forth. So, in the end, the students have a disjointed and incomplete education. Kumar sought to remedy these inequities by opening a school to fill the gaps. The purpose of teams is to help staff the school.
Because we have an overlap of teams, Manistry has assumed the role of construction workers. We're repainting all the walls in the school, giving some a two-tone blue and others an orange. I definitely don't mind the Orange and Blue themes, if you know what I mean, Tigers. Sometimes we breathe in the fumes by accident, hence the huffing paint part of the title.
We're also doing some carpet work at the school and the rooms in which we're staying. Kumar also has plans to make a shelf and a plywood partition to block the air conditioning from leaving through a metal garage-style door. I'm actually looking forward to it, because I'm assuming I'm going to be working with wood that hasn't been left out in the rain and warped (like other places on the Race). We also have plans to try and introduce ultimate frisbee to the community, which is the definition of baller.
Oh, right, the skinny dipping part of the blog title. I was just thinking of an evocative title to get people to click on my blog. But hmm, let's try and loosely relate it. Well, after we work, we go back to our living quarters and strip bare the troubles of the day and dip ourselves into the word and worship music. Satisfied? Probably not, sorry!
We did have an Easter service of sorts, sang some songs and watched Passion of the Christ. It was a lot of fun.
It's weird thinking that I'm more than halfway done. And while I love Journalism, writing, photography, and everything that goes along with my major, it's becoming clear to me that I have no idea what I want to do with my life. When even the prospect of being a dental hygienist is intriguing, you know you're pretty lost. Well, I have 5 months to gain some perspective, and maybe things will be more clear by the end of it. Hmm, what about psychology?
As always, I love your comments and e-mails of support, and I hope the title got you to click! If I get 1,500 views I win an invisible prize. Send the link to all your friends! :)
This is an exceptionally short photo blog of some of the people I met throughout my time in Vietnam. I'll be adding a couple more when I steal them from my teammates, so check back every now and then over the next couple days.
My mom wanted pictures of me, and my dad wanted pictures of the people I met, so I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone. This is the result of that.
The owners/operators of our hotel, Nhà Nghỉ An Bình, in Đà Nẵng, Vietnam
Jordan Fath with our hotel's owner/operator.
Two girls who ran "the coffee shop around the corner" whose name I forget but apparently was along the lines of "Caphe."
When I was paying one might have said, "You handsome, thank you see you again" before giggling and running off.
Liz in the alley outside our hotel, if you proceed to where it lets out, the coffee shop above is right to the left.
Jake in the same alley, facing the other way, if you walk down this way, you'll eventually run into the road with Bread of Life and Sky Coffee.
Owners of Sky Coffee, Kẹo Bông Gòn (She told us to call her Heroine). I'll have to stalk the guy to get his name when I have facebook that works.
Some more of the staff of Sky Coffee with Heroine.
More of Liz and Jake
It's a horribly inferior subsitution, but it's the closest to Chik-Fil-A I've got.
Hoàng Mý Hanh (I cheated and zoomed in on her nametag), an employee who took my order often enough to memorize it.
Me and Channele!
Random addition, but here's the remnants of Jake's stomach from his kidney surgery. He had to get his stomach inflated for part of the process, too, is my understanding. I know many people on the Squad, as well as others who follow are aware of the surgery he went through. He got a tumor removed from his kidney robotically, the angry incision points are where the robotics went to work. He's at home and recovering, but it's a long and uncomfortable recovery. We'll know more when we get the information back from pathology, but we have faith and confidence it will be benign.
"It's probably nothing," I thought to myself while sitting in a pew. A service was about to begin, and I had just reached my seat. Two girls on a different team had left because one wasn't feeling well. I sat there for a minute, but it was a feeling I couldn't shake. "They're fine, even though it's night, it's way too crowded," I thought. It was probably one too many egg sandwiches -Egg, Soy Sauce, a ground Beef, spicy sauce; I had two- and the diarrhea that had recently visited my otherwise pleasant experiences in the restrooms. Too much information? Not for a World Racer. "How are your BM's?" becomes a humorous ice breaker prior to tough conversations.
I stood. The feeling didn't want to go away. I was in a good place, I should feel good, despite feeling bad to my stomach. I whispered into the ear of a teammate, over the too-loud roar of Vietnamese "W" music and singing that surrounded us.
"I'm going to catch up with the girls, stomach isn't feeling so hot." I said.
So, probably only a minute or two after sitting down, I got back up and left. I'm sure most thought I was just ditching to ditch and had found a plausible excuse. I started jogging down the street, trying to catch up with the girls.
Thoughts of the night before last popped into my mind. We had just finished karaoking with the staff of the coffee shop that our team has basically claimed for the month. It was late, 11 p.m. and my team (minus Brandon) was walking down a street we've walked down a hundred times. We were in a good mood, it had been a fun night. The street was dark, and deserted. We started making jokes about it being a ghost town, and how it was the one time we'd ever experience a street in Vietnam quiet.
A call to our left surprised us. A man was walking toward us. I suppose if you wanted a more evocative verb, it would be that he was slinking toward us. We reacted almost immediately. The girls fell silent and sandwiched between Jake and I. Jake moved to the front, the girls behind him, walking more briskly than previously. I walked a little slower, pulling a Gerber knife from my pocket and holding it in my right hand. I made a point to look back at the man pointedly every now and then. We were walking faster than him, even my slower pace.
He was probably just slightly inebriated, saw Americans and wanted to say "Hello." Then again, it was 11 p.m., we had backpacks and iPhones in our hands, and there was no guarantee that was his only intention. We put distance between him and when we turned the corner, we felt better.
I was jogging down the streets, I had just left the service and was catching up to the girls. The bad feeling was still in my mind. I saw them up ahead, about a block and a half in front of me.
I saw the man on the Moto moving much slower than traffic, keeping pace with the two American girls walking back to their hotel at night. I jogged a little faster, and gained ground, eventually coming parallel with the man on the Moto. He turned and saw me and accelerated.
"Hey, what's up?" the girls said as I caught up to them.
"Ah, not feeling well, plus I didn't feel good about you all walking alone," I said a little breathlessly, sweat most likely evident upon my skin.
"Thanks," they said.
This month has been a fairly atypical one. We are not dealing in tangible evidence that what we're doing makes a difference, but we know it does. Our intention this month is merely planting seeds and cultivating relationships for future students who visit Vietnam. It can be frustrating to be a little more... covert than normal, but it's rewarding when you know that the relationships are strong, as they are at the coffee shop we frequent.
I've been slightly out of sorts recently. Jake recently had surgery to remove a mass from his kidney. He is currently recovering, and will spend a couple weeks at home while he does so. Pathology will offer more information in a week or two. Jeremy recently arrived in Costa Rica for a trip of similar nature, and will hopefully have great stories by the end of it.
We go back to Ho Chi Minh on Monday night or Tuesday morning, and we spend a couple days there before moving to Malaysia. It has been an incredible restful month, which means I have few pictures of Vietnam (sorry!) and only some interesting stories that I can share in a couple weeks.
As always, thank you for your prayers and support, I've passed the halfway point of this long journey.
As an aside, the vagueness of this and other blogs from Vietnam is intentional, mostly because I'm not entirely sure what sort of censorship I should be expecting. So, if it seems like I'm leaving out information or being vague, it's on purpose, but I was told that a disclaimer explaining that I'm being vague and cryptic is perfectly okay.
At the moment, I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Vietnam with my team. The month has been pretty uneventful so far, mostly because we're still finding our place within the city. We have been enjoying making new friends in Vietnam, and the conversations that we have are quite fruitful. The people we encounter, for the most part, are friendly are enjoy our company. However, it seems like the disposition toward white people is either one of friendliness or neglect. "Hellos" are responded to with a hello back or nothing at all, the people choosing to ignore us, instead.
The blocks on facebook (there are plenty of ways around it, but each seems to have their own limitations) make staying connected a little harder, but I've found that I've just been e-mailing a lot more. I haven't taken many pictures yet, so that's why I went ahead and placed what I have on this particular blog.
One of our favorite places to go is a restaurant that employs the deaf. It has been incredible to get to know the people that Vietnam chooses to ignore, and learn an entirely new language. I have found that sign language is incredibly intuitive, and thus easy to pick up. For instance, the sign for arguing is what you'd expect: two hands-as-mouths biting/talking hastily back and forth. The staff who is deaf is extremely appreciative of people who at least attempt to converse with them. The restuarant itself has been open for 14 years and is owned and operated by an American couple. It is also managed by an additional American couple, and the four of them are incredibly friendly. It's nice having a taste of home and be able to talk freely about whatever you want.
The other night we were on the boardwalk singing certain songs for our own enjoyment and we attracted a small, but curious crowd.
Ho Chi Minh, and other areas of Vietnam, are incredibly expensive because tourism is such a huge draw. The currency is Dong, and the conversion is about 20,300:1. Which means when you go to the ATM, you withdraw 1.5 million Dong, and you spend roughly 80,000 - 100,000D on a meal. It's pretty insane, and were the amount I spend not so gut-wrenching, the whole act would have a sort of play-money feel to it. As it stands, I anticipate spending, at the very least, double what I've been spending each month. The "worst" currency, but the one I'm going to spend the most of. Ugh!
For reference, the penalties for a local for [certain things] is persecution or imprisonment, and our contacts did not elaborate on either. For a non-local, you're deported from the country and your passport is effectively blacklisted. In other words, you'll never be able to walk into Vietnam again. So, while some of my peers may be speaking more freely, I am going to adhere to the crypticness of the whole ordeal for my contact's benefit instead of my own. If you are a fan of google, you can try and figure out where we are/the restaurant by the following clues! (It's like a scavenger hunt... get excited!!!)
1. Three words.
2. It's not aquatic, but it was multiplied in a Good Book.
3. Not death, but...
4. The country I'm in.
Put those three words in google and it will pop up (I've tested it)
As a closer, I'll share a short experience I had this morning that I found interesting.
We were walking to the coffee shop and one of my teammates jumped into the ATM booth to snag some money. I waited outside and a really old man came up to me and started talking in a friendly tone.
"You hello, we you come from?"
"USA."
"Oh oh! USA #1 always!"
"Heh, I guess so?"
He shook his head and grinned, leaned in and spoke more softly, "Not here... loser here."
Then he walked away, chuckling to himself.
"Feel like I'm gonna get whacked sitting here like this."
-Matt Damon as Mike McDermott (Rounders)
These pictures are for you, Mayes, figured you'd like them.
I’ve been struggling to process my experiences in Cambodia, probably because there have been so many, and so many different types of them. So, let’s start at the beginning and wander a long, long path to the end.
Teen Challenge is located in Takeo Province, Cambodia, which is about an hour south of Phnom Penh. Their ministry is helping boys and adult men with a variety of addictions -drugs, alcohol, pornography, etc- by rehabilitating them. The majority of the time, the kids agree to this based on some sort of parental intervention, but their eagerness to go is often replaced with the desire to run away.
Kids running away is a big problem. When we returned from Phnom Penh (we had a couple days of R&R), our stuff had been rifled through in an effort to find valuables to trade for their passage back to Phnom Penh. Luckily, we had been warned of the probability of this occurring and took most of our stuff with us.
Upon entering the room and seeing the clothes strewn about, every item in my pack scattered on the floor of my tent (tent is pitched for the mosquito covering), I was only annoyed because they had left my tent unzipped, allowing mosquitoes to get in. We found a hat that we recognized, presumably from one of the kids in their haste to escape. When I returned it, there was evident fear in his eyes at being caught, but I just rubbed his head and hugged him for a brief moment.
We learned later that the kids -kids we had started building a relationship with- were found in a storm drain. They had planned to stay there until darkness would cover their escape. One thing we learned about this particular storm drain is that due to the heat, humidity, and the dwindling oxygen, the kids probably would have been dead by nightfall.
"Escape" may seem like the wrong word, but truthfully it isn't. Periodically during the day, and always at night, the kids and some of the adults are locked in a building. At first it seemed cruel to be kee them in there, but I suppose it was only to remove the opportunity to leave a situation that is meant to help them, and that they signed up for voluntarily.
People change their minds, though. One teenager -16, I believe- had escaped and we ran into him randomly in Phnom Penh. We bought him dinner and he expressed he wanted to return to Teen Challenge. We set it up for him.
I could talk a lot about the conditions being hard, but it hasn’t been as bad as my words would color it. It’s hot, so what. We don’t have excessive amounts of water, so what. We only have a couple fans, so what, at least we have that. Our food has been amazing. Our ministry is more about relationships than anything else.
It’s split up into two relatively brief sessions. We have bible study that the guys lead, and English which the girls lead. That’s it. That is the only opportunity we have to have focused pouring into the kids. Hopefully, we’ve utilized our time wisely. We’ve spent the majority of Bible study sharing the stories we loved as children, and gradually hitting harder stuff that really resonates with the men and boys. Our own testimonies have parallels with their own, despite the setting being radically different.
Volleyball has been our opportunity for fun with the kids. I honestly like playing volleyball more than any other sport. That’s probably surprising, as I doubt any of you have ever seen me play. I imagine that’s because I didn’t live near a beach, and Creekside’s volleyball court was often filled with one-too-many shirtless guys having a testosterone contest. But in Cambodia, it works for me. It’s nice being one of the tallest (I can’t spike well), and being able to really be active when most of the time people (Cambodians included) are hiding in the shade.
Sam, who hopefully I’ll interview today, is an amazing man. If I don’t get the opportunity, I’ll expound upon him more at a later date, but suffice it to say he has an incredible heart.
Our R&R in Phnom Penh was actually really needed. We lost one team member, another went home for treatment for migraines (she’s returning), ministry didn’t really start until the second week, and our squad leaders were here. It was a short month. We met with some women who work at Daughters of Cambodia, women who train and create jobs for victims of the sex trafficking industry of Cambodia.
I went for a massage in Phnom Penh (warily) and found a simple massage parlor and spent a couple minutes talking to the people outside. There was a lot of giggling going on, but in comparison to the more seedier places, it seemed fine. As I was about to walk in, the masseuse said to me, “You know no ‘boom boom,’ right?” “Right,” I said, “only massage.” “Yes, yes... only massage. Many white people only want ‘boom boom,’ good you not want this.” With that I got an hour massage (clothed) and my masseuse as well as three other women practiced their English with me. Terrible massage; good experience.
One thing that I wanted to do since I stepped foot in Cambodia was go to Battambang, where my Dad goes each year with his North Point missions team. I was bummed that logistically, it wasn’t going to work out. Battambang is roughly six to eight hours from Takeo, and financially and time wise it just wasn’t possible. What was possible, however, was meeting up with Alex Themelis.
Alex is a man with an incredible heart. He’s met my Dad and his mission team, and has been in Cambodia for two years. His heart is so evident in everything that he does. He offered to show me around Phnom Penh on one of our days off (Saturday) and take us to Tuol Sleng (S21 - Khmer Rouge/Pol Pot concentration camp) as well as New Life’s orphanage outside of Phnom Penh. While it wasn’t the Battambang orphanage, it would still be good to see. We were going to Skype my Dad so he could see me surrounded by the kids.
When we met Alex in the morning, Brandon and I received a shock. There was Kea, Vanna, Kim Leng and Vibol, kids that I knew from the Battambang orphanage, and that my Dad had built incredible relationships with. Kim Leng and Vibol are sponsored by my Dad. Also, Pastor Vic (head of New Life Missions) and his wife, Ratha and his wife Phearum (critical players at the Battambang orphanage) were there. They had been brought all the way from Battambang as a surprise for me and my Dad. It was an incredible experience, and only possible by some great planning by Alex. He wasn't satisfied with failure, and wanted me to come to Cambodia and see people that I really wanted to meet.
Switching gears, I wanted to talk a little more about Cambodia’s sex trade. Sex is so ingrained in Cambodian culture, and I really don’t want to reiterate it, except to share an incredible talk I had with a local. At the gas station (I was on a junk food hunt) I ran into a Cambodian who spoke great English and was offering drugs, sex, massage, and I straight up asked him, “Why are Cambodians so casual with sex?” The conversation that follows is the best that I could remember it, the man never offered his name.
“Phnom Penh is different from anywhere else. It doesn’t change you always, but it lets you change yourself if you want. You can be normal or crazy. You can try things you wonder about and no one cares or tells you it’s wrong.”
I could understand the appeal, if we’re being honest. To do whatever you want and it be socially acceptable. I said nothing, though, so he continued.
“This city is shocking only because people want to convince themselves they’re being shocked. It’s normal to us, and to people who have been here awhile. Elsewhere, you go drink or something, here you buy drugs or go to a brothel.”
“So, I take it you do it, too?” I said.
He laughed. “I don’t do drugs, they hurt me, but I like women and brothels. I think maybe 190 ‘Night Women’ in Phnom Penh.”
I must have looked shocked at his number, but I realized I was doing what he said, and convincing myself I was being shocked.
“Here, it’s just math. You have $5 so what do you do? New book or pants? It’s possible, but when $5 can be beautiful woman, it does not take long to understand you can wash your pants or borrow a book from the library.”
Afterward, he went on a tangent about how to him it was romantic. He treated every girl as a unique experience and it becomes more interesting instead of just one night stands. He made some comment about how it wouldn’t make sense until you tried it, to which I flippantly responded with, “have you tried Jesus?” He laughed and said, “heard about that one before, and I’m still not buying. Since you’re not buying either, I’ll see you around.” Then he was gone.
I didn’t, and still don’t really know how I felt about the conversation. It’s rooted so deeply in the culture that it seems by sheer force alone you can’t rip them out of the ground. It’s only from constant effort can these roots be upheaved.
For truly heart gripping blogs on Cambodia, I’ve linked two blogs from Heather Hartz, a squad member. The first is on Cambodian child poverty, and the second (more intense) is on the sex industry. I would strongly encourage you to read both, they add a perspective that would be difficult to recreate after reading her words. Plus, the ENGL/JRNL student tells me to say that the writing is also superb.
Today is our last day in Takeo, then on the 1st we leave for Vietnam. It has been an incredible experience, and my hope is that for at least one, we’ll have a lasting impression.
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