An episode of ethnocentrism

Superb starlings at Fisherman’s Camp plunged me into an episode of ethnocentrism. Just little birds!

At first, we and our fellow orientees were in awe of the superb starlings’ striking beauty. Their wings and back reflected a brilliant, shimmery blue-green color. Combine that with their orange bellies and black heads and indeed, their beauty was stunning. And to think they lived right there with us, so close!

Before long, though, their arrogant, tenacious determination to steal our food—right from our plates sometimes!—soured our initial admiration.

To make matters worse, they pooped on our laundry hanging between trees. When that happened, I’d have to get out my little plastic basin, scrub the laundry clean, and hang it to dry—again under those birds!

Then the ibis calls began to get on our nerves—they were so loud and piercing. In fact, they bordered on obnoxious.

Mind you, people come from around the world to watch and listen to Lake Naivasha’s birds, but to my way of thinking, those birds were an annoyance. And they definitely were inferior to my birds back home in Washington.

I suppose we all wrestle with it. It’s called ethnocentrism.

Ethnocentrism—it’s the assumption that our birds are better than their birds, the belief that we do things the right way and they (people in other cultures) do them the wrong way.

It’s the conviction that our way is superior while theirs is inferior—things like traditions, values, music, race, appearance, language, odors, religious practices, humor, marriage, child-rearing, medicine, and food, to name only a few.

And often our assumptions are not correct.

A North American arriving in Kenya might scoff, “People drive on the wrong side of the road here!” In fact, they don’t drive down the wrong side of the road—they drive down the left side of the road. Driving on the left is not inferior to driving on the right side—it’s simply different from the North American practice of driving on the right side.

An important objective during our orientation course, then, was to recognize our ethnocentrism and take a fresh, positive look at Africa and the African way of thinking and doing, and soon Dave and I would conclude that Africans do many things better than Americans. Our goal was to humble ourselves, learn to honor Africans, and live in their culture without causing offense.

And so, I’m happy that I could write in Chapter 1 of Grandma’s Letters from Africa that within a few days, I learned to focus on the positive aspects of Lake Naivasha’s birds.

Still today, I cherish those birdsongs. 

Once in a while, I’ll hear one of them in a movie 

or TV program about Africa—

and oh, the rich memories those songs stir up!

What about you?

Have you experienced cultural differences 

that caused ethnocentric thoughts to break out? 

If so, how did you handle it? 

Did the situation turn out well in the end? I hope so!

Share your stories with us!

Leave a comment below, 

or on Grandma’s Letters from Africa’s Facebook Page, 

or send a private message.

Have you ever been serenaded by fruit bats?

Let me tell you about fruit bats.

It was just before bedtime on the first night of our orientation course at Lake Naivasha, Kenya, when our director, Brian Caston, warned us about fruit bats’ strange nocturnal noise.

He said it sounded like someone striking a note on a xylophone, the same note over and over and over again.

Have you ever tried to sleep through the night with someone playing a xylophone outside your tent? Sigh. . . .

Brian forgot to mention that the note was flat.

According to Learn About Nature’s website, fruit bats are “furry, cute mammals and do not inspire the fear that some people have of bats.” Click here to see pictures of these “furry, cute mammals.”

Researchers with Tel Aviv University discovered fruit bats make various noises to communicate with each other.

Bob Yirka reports, “The researchers grouped the sounds into four main groups: arguing over food, mating and sleeping clusters, and differences of opinion regarding how close was too close when hanging around each other. . . . They noted also that the bats tended to change their tones when addressing members of the opposite gender.” Who knew?! (That sounds awfully similar to the ways and reasons humans make sounds, too!)

And the noise they make is an ultrasonic sound (in frequencies too high for human ears to hear), which they use, instead of vision, to find their dinner and avoid flying into each other.

We owe bats a big asante sana (thank you) because they eat mosquitoes (hooray!) and beetles, distribute seeds and pollinate flowers that result in fruit and vegetables for our dinner tables. In Kenya those would include bananas, mangos, figs, cashews, avocados, and dates. Nowadays fruit bats also play a key role in reforestation in tropical parts of the world. 

Now, in retrospect, it occurs to me that I shouldn’t have been so grouchy about listening to fruit bats all night. It could have been worse. I mean—better a xylophone than a leopard or a lion, right? 

And then there were those lovely birds—400 species at Lake Naivasha alone!

Fish eagle on the left, superb starling on the right

Last week I directed you to a video clip of fish eagles and their shrill, whistle-like cries that reverberated throughout our camp.

I also linked you to raucous ibis calls—sounding like a crow’s “caw!” broadcast over a loudspeaker. They were to become an everyday sound we lived with.

But most of the birdsongs were simply beautiful. I especially enjoyed the mourning doves’ gentle, muffled warble that enveloped us, “woo-OOO-ooh, woo-OOO-ooh.”

At Lake Naivasha, I heard the ring-necked dove’s song for the first time and, above all Kenya’s other birds, its song became the one that most signifies “Africa” to me. Its drawn-out warble, louder than the mourning dove’s song, sounds like, “bup! POW-woe. bup! POW-woe. bup! POW-woe!”

Those birds’ choruses were foreign to me at first, but soon they became familiar and sounded like a grand symphony, especially early in the morning.

Add to that cricket chirps and insect hums, and we were serenaded all day—and night—up close and personal.

Come on back next week and I'll tell you about the superb starling.

People come from around the world to witness Lake Naivasha’s birds

More than a thousand bird species live in Kenya and almost four hundred species make their homes at Lake Naivasha where Dave and I spent the first two weeks of our orientation course.

I marveled at the birdsongs—

their warbles and chirps and calls—

their variety, intensity, and volume. 

Listening to those birds in such close proximity 

was one of the highlights of my life.

It’s no surprise that people come from around the world 

to watch Lake Naivasha’s birds.

We lost all our photos from our stay on the shores of Lake Naivasha but nowadays, thanks to the internet, besides seeing photos of those lovely birds, you can also listen to their songs.

So here we go, thanks to the following links:

At this link, you will see the lake and the birds that live there, and you can listen to their distinct calls. You’ll see vibrant Superb Starlings between the 1:29 point and 1:49. At 2:13 you’ll see the Colobus monkeys that lived among us, too. Watch for their striking black and white silken fur. (Click here.)

At this link you’re in for a treat because you’ll see beautiful Lake Naivasha while also listening to Kenyan singing. I’ll always love their rich harmonies and pulsing rhythms. You’ll also see (at the :47 mark) the most prominent creature that lived among us—and the most deadly—hippos! (More stories about hippo incidents in future posts!)

In the next clip, you’ll listen to bird songs and see tents similar to those we used while there (although our group’s tents were spread apart more than those in the video). You’ll also see way too many photos of marabou storks.

Ibis was another prominent bird at Lake Naivasha. We didn’t see them often (because, I think, they lived high in the trees) but their calls definitely caught our attention. Often. In Grandma’s Letters from Africa, I described the ibis’s call in as kind a way as possible—I said it sounded like a crow’s “caw” over a loudspeaker. What you’ll hear on this video clip is toned down compared to being there in person. Be thankful! 

After listening to the raucous ibis’ calls, you’ll better appreciate the calls of the African Fish-eagle in this next video.

When I recall our days living at Lake Naivasha, my heart still thrills at the birdsongs. (Except for the ibis' calls!)

Look at the birds in the sky!

They don’t plant or harvest.

They don’t even store grain in barns.

Yet your Father in heaven takes care of them.

(Matthew 6:26, CEV)

Life under acacias at Fisherman’s Camp, Lake Naivasha

Dave and I and a couple dozen other orientees finally pulled off the dusty, potholed road and entered Fisherman’s Camp along the shores of Lake Naivasha. We were about to begin our three-month orientation course, Kenya Safari.

“We lived in our tent under shade trees: eucalyptus—heavy-scented, with clouds of billowy dark leaves—and umbrella acacias, with horizontal layers of airy, delicate leaves and three-inch needle-sharp thorns. I’d seen acacias only in exotic African photos, and then at Lake Naivasha I found myself living in a tent under those trees.” (from Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 1)

Wattles, whistling thorn trees, umbrella trees, thorn trees—they’re all acacia trees, just four of more than a thousand species of acacias.

The yellow-fever acacia, also known as fever acacia, grows at Fisherman’s Camp. Its smooth bark is bright yellow or greenish-yellow, and it appears especially brilliant when sunshine filters through the trees’ leaves.

This link will show you photos of yellow-fever acacias. They’re quite fascinating.

I also invite you to take eleven seconds to watch this video clip, filmed at Fisherman’sCamp, where you’ll see not only this tree’s unusual bark, but also a Colobus monkey, a striking creature with black and white silky fur.

I’ve often wondered why those trees go by the name “fever” acacias. Recently I investigated, and here’s what I discovered. Because fever acacias grow in moist areas (along rivers, near lakes, in swampy areas), and because early European settlers living nearby often fell ill with malaria, they mistakenly blamed the trees for their fevers—and thus the name, fever acacias. In fact, however, malaria-carrying mosquitoes also breed and live in such moist areas. Mystery solved.

Come on back next week. 

I'm eager to introduce you to more of 

Kenya’s beauties at Fisherman’s Camp!

Grab your canteen—filled with filtered water, not tap water—and a roll of TP!

“Our group of fifty trainees and staff drove out of Nairobi,

the capital city, in a northerly direction,

into the Great Rift Valley,

and eventually arrived at Fisherman’s Camp

on the shores of Lake Naivasha.”

(from Chapter 1, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

Are you ready to start this journey around Kenya with me? I’m excited to show you scenery along the way. 

Don’t forget your canteen—filled with filtered water, not tap water! Remember to bring your own roll of TP! Toss your sunglasses, hat, camera, hand sanitizer, and insect repellant into your backpack, too.

Before we set out, first I must make two confessions.

First confession: I goofed in my book. I wrote that for the first phase of our orientation course, we camped at Fish Eagle Camp. Not true. We camped at Fisherman’s Camp. A wooden sign posted at the entrance says both “Fisherman’s Camp” and “Fish Eagle Camp.” Apparently, they sit beside each other. I suspect that’s why I got confused.

Second confession: My husband and I lost all our pictures from this two-week period, but I will show you a couple of my own of the region as well as exquisite photos, taken by someone else, along the route we took.

I’m ready—are you?

Climb up here beside me in the back of this dark green 1974 Toyota Land Cruiser and remember, in Kenya, a former British colony, people drive on the left side of the road.

You’ll see scenes thoroughly familiar to me—typical roads, road signs, and vehicles.

You’ll also see red clay paths, rural villages, shambas (little farms), and roadside shops.

Watch for African trees and shrubs, the Great Rift Valley overlook at 8,000 feet (it’s always cold up there), and scenes from down in the Rift Valley (it’s always hot down there). (Click here to read about the Great Rift Valley. It’s fascinating.)

You’ll also see several pictures of an unnamed mountain peak, and one labeled generically “volcanic peak.” That’s spectacular Mt. Longonot, an enormous dormant volcano with a vast crater.

In these photos, you won’t see a picture of the market town of Naivasha [niy-VAH-shah], which we drove through to get to Fisherman’s Camp, but I heard from my friend Shel Arensen, author of the novel The Dust of Africa, that Jim’s Corner Dishes in Naivasha has the best cabbage and chapati in town and still gives customers torn-in-half paper napkins!

It’s time to set out. Brace yourself—many of the roads ahead of us will be pocked with major potholes. Click here to view photos of the journey from Nairobi to Lake Naivasha. 

I’m eager for you to see 

the beautiful Kenyan countryside, 

a place I love. 

Is this what you’d envisioned?

Armed with chocolate and Esther’s instructions on how to stare down a leopard

Last week I told you about how, in the years leading up to the new assignment my husband and I took in East Africa, all Wycliffe trainees had to pass a more-than-strenuous survival course called Jungle Camp. (If you missed it, click on Angst over anticipating our three-month orientation course.)

What I didn’t tell you last week was the part of Jungle Camp that paralyzed me with fear. Each participant had to be prepared at all times for any eventuality because at a time unknown to them, one by one they’d receive a tap on the shoulder and be led away into the wilderness where he or she would have to survive, alone, for 24 hours or more.

At the moment of the shoulder tap, whatever a trainee had—in his pocket, in her water canteen, tools or supplies he had (knife, compass, rope, etc.), whatever clothes she had—would have to suffice.

Can you imagine?! You’d have no way to get help in an emergency. Even without emergencies, you’d have to build a fire, catch and butcher and cook your own meat, find a source of water, and coexist with jungle creatures all night, hearing their calls, listening to their footsteps getting closer and closer, hearing a snake slither through the underbrush.

I could understand the rationale behind such training—Bible translator friends of ours in South America, for example, used such skills to set up their work in isolated areas within Stone Age-type cultures.

In addition, in South America I had worked with two young women who fled from guerrilla soldiers and had to survive in the jungle, on the run, awaiting their rescue. (You’ll want to read about that in Chapter 39 of my new memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir.)

           

Yes, I understood the importance of such rigorous training.

But I dreaded having to go through such training myself!

However, before Dave and I set out for Africa, I received good news! Wycliffe’s orientation courses had changed over the years, at least in East Africa. No longer were they such strenuous survival courses. Instead, they focused mainly on orientation to our new countries and cultures.

Dave and I would still have to rough it for three months—living in tents, listening to wild creatures in the night, hauling water, cooking over a fire, and hiking, among other challenges.

Our orientation, called Kenya Safari, would be easier than Jungle Camp, but I dreaded it because I was not athletic, possessed no aspiration for adventure, and loathed roughing it. Moreover, I had already paid my membership dues and joined the over-the-hill society.

With only a vague idea of what to expect during the orientation, I did know I’d never experienced anything like it and that I’d need more strength, stamina, and tenacity—physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual—than I’d ever needed before.

For two years I had prayed, and prayed, and prayed, and psyched myself up for Kenya Safari but, by on the day of our departure, I still didn’t have a lot of confidence in myself.

Nevertheless, somehow (well, not somehow, but by God’s grace) my worries and doubts coexisted with faith that God would get me through if only I’d depend on Him and cooperate with Him.

The Bible says, “In quietness and confidence shall be your strength” (Isaiah 30:15, NKJV). I told God I’d keep my mouth shut and take care of the quietness part if He’d take care of the confidence part.

So, armed with a chocolate bar and my friend Esther’s instructions on how to stare down a leopard, on September 9 Dave and I set out on our three-month orientation, Kenya Safari.

With a clenched jaw, mixed emotions, and plenty of jitters, I gave God a stern reminder that I was counting on Him. (from Chapter 1, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

“. . . Maybe courage is not at all about the absence of fear but about obedience even when we are afraid,” writes Katie Davis Majors.

“Maybe courage is trusting when we don’t know what is next, leaning into the hard and knowing it will be hard, but more, God will be near,” she continues. “He is the God Who Will Provide. He will provide His presence, His strength, or whatever He decides we most need.”

Angst over anticipating our three-month orientation course

September 9 through December 2, Dave and I participated in Kenya Safari, Wycliffe’s field orientation course designed to teach skills for living in remote settings.

We had worked with Wycliffe Bible Translators in South America fifteen years earlier but, because we’d made a short-term commitment then, only three years, we didn’t need to take an orientation course. This time, though, in Africa, we’d made a long-term commitment and had to take the course.

In South America, did we hear stories! Friends and coworkers told us about their orientation, called Jungle Camp, in a remote locale in the Chiapas area of southern Mexico.

Jungle Camp was more than an orientation course—it was a survival course. They told me that participants who didn’t do well in the three-month course were disqualified as members of Wycliffe.

They told stories of building their own shelters in isolated jungle settings, of making their own mud stoves, and of learning how to butcher whatever jungle critters they could find. They told stories of lots of hiking, and/or riding mules over rough mountain trails, and paddling up rivers—some trips taking two or three days—and sleeping in hammocks strung from trees.

Mickey Richards wrote this of her 1973 experience with her husband in Jungle Camp during their five weeks of Main Base, the easiest part of their training:

“On an overnight trip . . . we stayed in the home of a family in a village we visited. We had dinner with the Tzeltals [an indigenous group]. . . . After singing songs and talking with people [in the Tzeltal language], we were shown our sleeping quarters. Behind the house was a wooden building of ill-fitting boards, and it was there we slept. 

“Our bed was a set of wooden boards set up on sawhorses. We wore our clothes to bed that night, the same clothes we had worn during the day. We had brought our own blankets . . . but nothing to put under us, and it was extremely uncomfortable. . . . 

“We could hear their hogs outside the building making grunting noises most of the night. Fleas were rampant, and they got inside of our pants and made us miserable.”  (Read more from her blog post as well as from her book, A Joyful Life in God’s Hands, The Mickey Richards Story.)

After several weeks at the Main Base, participants set out for Advanced Base, designed to increase their skills and toughen them physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually for the jobs they would soon begin in equally primitive locales.

Transitioning into Main Base started with a long hike (for some it was an overnight hike). The following is Rich Mansen’s account of that from his new memoir, Trail Posts: Defining Moments of My Life:

We all hiked together, campers, children and a few staff. Our destination: twenty miles across the savannah and into the rain forest, closer to the mountains and the Guatemalan border—yes, farther from the comforts of Main Base. 

Mid-morning we crossed the first stream. Some got to ride over on a mule, the rest slung their boots across their shoulders and crossed on bare feet. Young children had it made—two or three on a mule or resting in the lap of a lady in the saddle. 

By lunch break, sweating, aching and with canteens nearly empty, we didn’t care whether we ate or not. Flimsy straw hats shaded sunburned noses. We had tied our pant legs to keep out ticks, but they got in anyway. What a sorry sight—everyone sprawled on the ground, trying to catch a few moments’ rest or quietly picking off ticks. . . . 

The next day we all spread out in search of suitable sites to build our champas. Each family or pair of singles had to locate at least 150 feet away from anyone else. Karis and I found an ideal place close to the river, our only source of water, and close to some wild cane. This was to be our new home turf. 

The following day, we cut a short trail to the river and dug a latrine and garbage pit. Next, we started building our champa, using only machetes—no hammer, no saw, no nails, no rope. The wild cane served a multitude of purposes, from covering the roof to building furniture. Vines hanging from tall trees took the place of nails and rope.”

(I encourage you to read Rich’s Trail Posts: Defining Moments of My Life. Many years after this account, I worked with Rich in Colombia, South America. I wrote about my three years there in my new memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir.)

Jungle Camp training got only more difficult from there.

Let me say that again:

Jungle Camp got only more difficult from there.

The stories I heard scared me out of my wits.

I could never do such things!

And then, some fifteen years later,

I found myself setting out

on my own orientation course,

this one in East Africa,

called Kenya Safari.

Oswald Chambers, writing of those who face big challenges, told us to thank God when we catch a vision of the reality of who and what we are compared to what we know God wants us to be.

He’s referring to our recognition of our immaturity, inexperience, and inadequate training; our less-than-perfect physical, mental, and emotional condition; the state of our spiritual health.

He writes, “You have had the vision [of what you could be], but you are not there yet. . . . It is when we are in the valley . . . that most of us turn back.

“We are not quite prepared for the blows which must come if we are going to be turned into the shape of the vision.

“We have seen what we are not, and what God wants us to be, but are we willing to have the vision ‘batter’d to shape and use’ by God?” (Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest)

Come back next Monday

and I’ll tell you about setting out for

our orientation course, Kenya Safari.