My List of Failures

I took an un-announced break from blogging because I was basically feeling sorry for myself. 

Here's my list of failures. 

In 2005 I signed up to sell BeautiControl, which if you know me and my lack of makeup-applying skills, you may find hard to believe. You will no doubt find it easier to believe that after five or so parties, I hung up on that dream of getting rich. 

Next I got this cleaver idea to sew pillows with pockets (the next best thing after blankets with sleeves, right?). I sold a few to people I know, but the Etsy store and the craft shows went nowhere. 

I returned to my childhood dream of writing, wrote my memoir, then found a publisher in 2012. They even published two more of my books the following two years. As is the tread in publishing right now, marketing of my books was quite a bit on my own. Again, I feel that I have failed there.  

A fourth endeavor, which this time I am not in alone, is the nonprofit organization which my daughter Val started in 2013. The two of us have tried promoting Tumaini Volunteers through various venues, but yet again, I feel that we haven't gotten anywhere. 

I can trace all of this failure to my fourth year of college. I was majoring in mass communications, with - of all things - a concentration in marketing and public relations! Can you just even believe it? 

Hopefully you will believe what happened next. God sent me a clear and distinct sign that I should drop out of college. Seriously. So I did. Good thing, I think. Years later, God sent me to a community college with a medical assisting program and that's how I ended up where I am today. Without any marketing expertise, and some statistics to support that. 

So, where do I go from here? I still use BeautiControl products for my own personal use, coz I like the stuff. I still sew and am working on quilt squares for a quilt for my own personal use. I've got three books for sale on Amazon.com (and a box of each of them in my closet). Someday I may have to read again all those words I wrote. And lastly my daughter and I are still plugging away on Tumaini, trying to finish writing our business plan, trying to raise some money, and trying to scare up some more volunteers for both here at home and to go to Kenya. 

I kinda want to leave it all on God's plate to deal with, but He has enough stuff on His plate already. But I've heard His plate is pretty big...  

If you want to help God out, here are the websites you can go to: 

http://www.tumainivolunteers.org/

http://www.amazon.com/Chris-Loehmer-Kincaid/e/B00FOC3WAY/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1425951043&sr=1-2-ent

https://www.facebook.com/tumainivolunteers/timeline

https://www.facebook.com/ChrisLoehmerKincaid

https://www.etsy.com/listing/216789576/unique-kenyan-necklace?ref=shop_home_active_3

http://www.tumainivolunteers.org/donate.html

Like them, share them, comment on them, open your wallet. Or not. 

Final Thoughts on Saikeri

We were in Saikeri, the land of the Maasai for such a short time. Tuesday afternoon came and we needed to head back to Nairobi.

What are my fondest memories of Maasailand? The peace, the quiet, the stillness at night sitting in the yard looking up at a million stars and finding the Big Dipper and knowing that we are never that far from home, that home is where you find yourself. (And kicking myself for not at least trying to get a picture.)  

And who can forget the infamous choo, the hole in the ground to use for a toilet. Going for four days without a shower. The medical clinic with no water or electricity. Minor inconveniences in the grand scheme of things.

Oh, but the chai tea. Until you have had chai tea made in the Bush by a Maasai momma, you have not had chai tea. If you get the chance you also have to try authentic ugali, but only a small piece.

The ride there in the back of an ancient Toyota pickup. And the ride back on the back of a piki-piki, a Kenyan motorbike fit for three and a week’s worth of supplies.

Sigh. I would go back to Kenya in a heartbeat if I could, and I would definitely spend more time at the place beyond the end of the road. 

 The yard at the volunteer house in Saikeri. The shower room is on the far right - a shower of course is taken using two buckets of rain water. The choo - or toilet - is just next to the shower room.

 Sunset

The piki-piki ride back to Ngong. While I was hanging on for dear life, Val was holding her camera out to the side to get pictures.

I'm not in America anymore

Tuesday morning! My first full day in Kenya! What are we going to accomplish today, I woke up wondering, as I wandered into the main room to see what was for breakfast. I wish I could tell you what was for breakfast, but I don’t remember.

Every morning around eight, our house mom, Momma Bishop, also called Momma Sally, brought in a thermos of hot milk. I know - ick. Most of the other volunteers dumped instant coffee or tea into their cup-full, and once in a while there was some powdered chocolate in the house. I just drank my hot milk straight each morning. This was something new to me, the girl from the dairy state who only drinks her milk ice-cold and preferably skim. But I can adapt.

And that’s what a trip to a third world country is most about. Adapting.

Along with the thermos of milk, Momma Bishop usually brought a couple loaves of store-bought bread. Some days she also brought French toast, scrambled eggs, or mandazi. Mandazi is considered an East African donut. Fried and sweet – I need to make me some of these sometime soon.

After breakfast (I think that first day I made toast and burned it), Val and I walked down to the corner to catch a matatu to Nakumatt Junction.

The road at the end of our driveway

I suppose you want that explained.

A matatu is a nasty form of public transportation, but they are cheap and they go all over. They are a twelve-passenger van. I’m at a loss as to how to describe it beyond that!

Ok, so you stand along the road, and this van whizzes up next to you. A guy jumps out, they call him the conductor. He’s not the driver. I only once really even saw the driver of one of these. He pretty much stays put behind the wheel and doesn’t get involved.

Anyway, so the conductor jumps out and asks where you are going. No matter what you say, he says he can take you there. And this is where you have to know what you are doing, because he will try to overcharge you, especially if you are white.

Val always told him 30 shillings, and sometimes he accepted that and sometimes he didn’t. I was always like, just pay him and don’t argue. It is not worth it.

By the way, 30 Kenyan shillings is about 35 cents.

So, you jump in this smelly little bus and music is usually blaring, it seemed like either offensive rap with lots of swearing or Christian music. It was weird. But no matter what was playing, it was too loud.

So off we go, down the road and the road is bumpy and the bus is crowded and it keeps stopping to pick up more people. Once in a while, when it was already full, the conductor seemed to ask some people to get off so someone else could get on. They spoke in Swahili, so I never was sure if this was really happening, but it sure looked that way.

When you get close to your stop, you beat on the side of the bus, and then the conductor beats on the roof too, and somehow with all the noise from the music, the driver actually hears this and usually stops. Not always. But usually.

The conductor and the driver must have this all orchestrated somehow. It all seems so chaotic, but somehow they know what they are doing. And no matter how crowded it was, and how many other people got on or off, the conductor knew where us white chicks were getting off. Or at least he did 80% of the time.

Oh, dear, that took up a lot of words. I think I will tell you about the Nakumatt next time. It is much easier to comprehend.