Why I love Administration

What do you do? A popular question meaning—what is your employment?

“I’m a semi-pro athlete,” I say nonchalantly. “Do a lot of triathlons, but I also enjoy traveling and learning languages.”

No, really, “I am an administrator of a small hotel, catering to missionaries, development workers and their visitors.” Slightly more honest, but usually once people hear “administrator” they tune me out. Why the negative reaction? And, why do I still like my job?

First the ugly:
Administrators deal with papers, phone calls, and meetings. That means a lot of sitting on your toushe, (my spellchecker doesn’t like that word either) and fiddling with digital devices. BOORING.

Administrators dress up and go to the office. They come home. “What did you do today, honey? Administrators don’t DO anything. They don’t swing hammers, counsel clients, preach sermons, or drive Land Rovers through rivers and up cliffs. BOORING, again.

Error management. Administrators, by definition, are responsible for the mistakes of a number of people, mostly with lower skill level than them.

Over-busyness. Many administrators are overworked, and many others are not skilled enough at delegating and filtering their tasks. So we get saddled with minutiae which exhaust us and render us ineffective.

Nonetheless, a few things make administration the best job in the world--For me.

Leverage. Administrators can leverage the assets, time, skills and even money of other people. If I am a technician, even a highly skilled one, one person is getting my job done. But if I have a clear sense of direction and calling, why not have 20 people or 2,000 people working on that same task? An administrator contributes substantially to the things important to him/her by coordinating the effort of many. I find that fulfilling.

Lots of moving parts. Everyone thrives on a different level of complexity and chaos, just like every engine produces its maximum torque at a different speed. As an administrator, there are usually enough issues to keep me at optimal RPM’s. That means I can produce and enjoy more, even at work.

Control over the means. If I am a technician, then my supervisors have a great deal of control over whether or not I am able to do a good job. But, again if I have a clear sense of direction, why not move into a position where more control falls into my hands?

Beware: Most people take on too much of the wrong kind of work. But a lot of others, people with a strong skills or passion in a particular area, could contribute more by stepping into administrative roles. That’s when we can become true leaders—not harried Blackberry toters!

Finally!

After many delays, and several versions of the plan for guesthouse expansion, starting 2 managers ago many applications lost in City Hall, we have finally gotten THE STAMP that says we are ready to build. The red rectangle is the new building.

As you might be able to see, there are 4 double rooms (the smaller, rectangular trenches on the inside) with a generous veranda all around (the perimeter trench). As I climbed up some rickety scaffolding to take this picture, Shadrack says "Daddy, don't fall."

Despite many concerns by the guests that we will ruin "their" guesthouse, the environmental impact study indicates only minor disruptions in Hubert Siefert's evening migrations. From the veranda where the guests drink tea, this is all you see.

So in about 6 months, we should have another 8 double rooms, increasing our capacity by 50%.
This will allow us to meet the needs of more guests, as well as hopefully produce some income which will fund mission work here in Africa.

On another note, here is my birthday present for Debbi, a triumph of marital communication.

For her birthday, she got to sleep in, we went out for lunch, we went on a family outing then she got a message. She was very happy but a couple of days later she asked me: "Did you get me a birthday present yet?"
I thought for a minute and said, "Uh, no, I guess not." Feeling rather dumb after all that I had remembered to do, but wondering whether maybe the massage would count.

"Because I was wanting one of those trees to hang my necklaces on."
"Oh," I said, "I did get you a birthday present!" And I had, about a month ago, bought this thing, with NO prompting from her, and of course forgotten all about it.
Wish I could be that prescient every day!

Dead and Buried in Kenya

“Bevon, Bevon, Bevon. We call to you and God calls to you. Blessing, Blessing, Blessing. We call to you and God calls to you.”

Bevon was 11 years old, Blessing only 8 months, when a station wagon lost control and struck them as they waited on the side of the main road that goes by our house. Patrick, their father, watched as they were hit, flew through the air, and landed, broken, at his feet. A third child is still in the hospital.

Drums ring out—2 large ones about 3 feet in diameter, and some smaller ones. And the dancing, and rhythmic, repetitive singing continues for several minutes before being interrupted.

“We will now put them into this ground. This indeed is their place. This is the place their mother was born. This is the place that they would have built; this indeed is their homestead."

And with those few words, the pastor smoothes over a second horror—the father of the deceased did not have his own plot, and children are always buried on their father’s property. In this case, Patrick has no choice but his mother-in-law’s homestead. A shame, but the mother’s community will accept these children onto their own ancestral land.

The funeral is drawing too a close—or so I suspect. Another prayer. “You are received into heaven, and Satan’s schemes are defeated.” “May he be defeated!” The crowd echoes this phrase loudly whenever Satan is mentioned, which happens fairly often.

The drumming begins again, and the dancing.

I am here to represent Eastern Mennonite Missions, my and Patrick’s employer, about 9 hours drive away from our homes in Nairobi. Showing support at the time of death is very important here, and about 500 people are here today, standing for several hours in the equatorial sun, tramping down maize and millet to get a good view of the proceedings.

The drumming stops again, and this time the first coffin is lowered. I squeeze close to someone in front of me and surreptitiously steal some shade from their umbrella for my rapidly reddening face.

More drumming. Another prayer. The second coffin is lowered. The father’s face is contorted as though still trying to contain that first scream of horror at seeing his children die. The mother stares straight ahead, with blank pain, as though she has just been shot in the heart and is waiting in that long second to slump to the ground in merciful death.

“Kwaherini, kwaherini, kwaherini.” Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

White-robed pall-bearers remove the ropes; youths and men replace the dirt with an efficient movement of shovels and djembe (large hoes); drums beat and another song rings out. The young people are dancing vigorously around the 2 small mounds of dirt, their sandaled feet inches from where the holes were moments ago, pounding the dirt down into the ground just like the rain will do over the next months.

The singing goes on for some time, although with the hypnotic effect of the drumming, chanting, and dehydration it is impossible to say how long. “Praises of saying goodbye,” I am told.

No markers on these graves, in the back yard of the main house belonging to the children’s grandmother. Nothing carved in marble, not even a wooden cross. The ground itself carries the memory for the grandchildren, as it did for the grandparents who are also buried around this same plot.

The maize and millet will grow up over these graves, feeding the community’s grandchildren, just as it did their great-great-grandparents. The ground itself carries the memory of both life and death, just as it has done since the day after the beginning of time.

This indeed is their place, this is their homestead.

Kwaherini, kwaherini, kwaherini.

Another Trip

Right now I don't have any pictures to upload, which is a shame because I have been in quite a few picturesque places this week.

I could put pictures of Mt. Kenya from the air in the early morning, on Tuesday when I flew up to Kitale.

I could put pictures of the church we worked on all week, with a team from the US and a very excited local pastor with his 10 children, or the view of Mt. Elgon (2nd highest in Kenya) from the 4th floor balcony of our hotel.

I could put pictures of the 3 funerals I went to. The first was by accident, as I was at the wrong place but didn't figure that out before I had greeted the family, given them my condolences and some tea leaves. Only then did I learn that their son had been brutally killed and his body burned once the community found out he was involved in a string of armed robberies. The other 2 were for children of our staff who happened to die around the same time.

The scenery on the way down from Kitale to Kisumu was amazing, too, but mostly variations of "huts on hills in cornfields." We did go through some really nice forest though, close to the rainforest reserve at Kakamega.

Now I'm sitting in a rather warm internet cafe in Kisumu, by lake Victoria, working on a teaching for a Mennonite Conference tomorrow. It will be a tough job, but I'm excited about the chance to talk with the top leaders in KMC about their development priorities.

Mostly, I'd love to post some pictures of my family, whom I miss terribly. As much as I love traveling, I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to keep doing this. Priska keeps calling me on the phone to say she misses, me, and Shadrack kissed the phone last night after he hung up. Sweet little darlings.
Next time I'll take my camera!