Observations | Ngong, golf, and a teaching update

MY APARTMENT – I’m seeing a bad correlation: 2 straight Chiefs losses because of their inability to contain the opponent, and 2 straight Matatus wins because of their ability to dominate the opponent.

After staying up to 2 a.m. to watch Kansas City blow an 18-point lead, I managed to make it through my second day of classes, an “exciting” afternoon of grading cookie-cutter Sophomore English papers, and an exhilarating bout with shoe-cleaning, I was finally able to get to the football field to take out some aggression. While I didn’t have the “superstar” game of last time, our team did dominate our opponent, the Packers, 24-0. Last time, we ended the game tied at 6, so I’d say this definitely made up for a subpar performance.

Now, if we could just get the Chiefs fixed… come back soon, Willie Roaf.

Three Observations:

1. I lift my eyes to the hills – where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth. (Psalm 121:1-2) I had my Junior Camp cabin memorize that verse this summer at B.A.R. in hopes that it would come back to them in a time they really needed it.
   
   Haha, it’s funny. I’m the one who probably got the most from that verse.
   
   Towering over MAA’s campus are the Ngong Hills, a chain of 4 knolls resembling giant knuckles. ("Ngong" is Swahili for "knuckles," actually.) On one of the first weekends here, the students hiked up them for a Sabbath afternoon activity while yours truly took a little nap. Elvin immediately recognized it to be a beautiful place to take pictures, especially of the sunset, so we swung by there just before sundown on Sabbath to check it out.
   
   As we crawled up the mound in the 4x4 vehicle, it began to pour out of almost nowhere, and a rainbow appeared just over the site where Maxwell was located. We kept moving up, and though the rain left, taking the colorful band in the sky with it, the sight was still breathtaking.
   
   We got to a good lookout point and stepped out of the vehicle, and I was silenced. Straight up from us was an almost pastoral hillside, sprinkled with shepherds guiding their cattle back from supper. In the direction we’d came from, there were menacing clouds, hovering over MAA and stretching to Nairobi. The other side presented a view of the Great Rift Valley, another set of hills, and a gorgeous sunset. The sky was flaked with remnants of the short-lived storm, and in the far distance, rain bands were illuminated by the few remaining rays of the sun.
   
   This little trip up the Ngong Hills was definitely one of the prettiest things I’ve seen in my time here. It was the kind of place that made you wonder what heaven could look like – or at least, how much better than this it could possibly be.


2. What is two fingers worth? Yesterday, I got the opportunity to go golfing in Nairobi with Doug Hartzell. I was super-pumped because I haven’t been out on a course in a few years, so this was my chance to get back into the sport. We took off at 7 a.m. – the crack of dawn, as far as Sunday is concerned – for a few hours of inevitable frustration.
   
   It took me six holes of topping, slicing, pulling, and just plain missing my ball to really question why I’d even come. I’m not competitive by any means, but I didn’t want to waste my opportunity to sleep in on a Sunday on two hours of mindlessly smacking a tiny white sphere of plastic all over the ground. Doug tried to cheer me up with jokes, and my caddy Josephet gave me tips of my stance and swing, but nothing helped. Complete waste of time.
   
   Before I teed of on the 7th, Josephet asked to see my hold on the club. I had it like I usually did – right hand wrapped around club and left thumb. Immediately Josephet caught my flaw.”
   
   No, try like this.” He took the club and copied my grip, with one adjustment; his right pinky and left index fingers were crossed, interlocking hands.
   
   I was… skeptical. “What? That’s going to help me out? Buddy, that’s just two fingers. I’ll just hold it tighter or something.”But Josephet insisted I tried it his way, so I assured him I’d give it a whirl on my next shot. He’ll probably be wrong, and I can go back to what I’ve been doing for years. No problem. I lined up the club head, coiled back, and let it rip.
   
   200 yards, straight down the fairway. WHAT? I was just stunned. I played out the hole, still blowing it a couple of times, but definitely making solid contact with the ball.
   
   The highlight of my day came on the next hole, #8. It was a par 3, probably 125 yards. Easy enough to reach the green, except for the sizeable pond that sat in between my goal. I looked at Josephet, and he gave me a Trust me look. Ok, whatever you say… I pulled back to swing, when something on the green caught my eye.
   
   Sign #452 that I’m in Africa and not Kansas anymore: There were baboons on the green! Freaking baboons! Doug offered to take off 10 strokes off my total score if I could just peg one of them. Ok then, new goal. I pulled back, closed my eyes, and swung down.
   
   What I saw happen was something I’ll probably never forget. No, I wasn’t fortunate enough to nail the primate off the drive – in fact, I topped the ball again. But since I was holding it more efficiently, I topped it completely, and the ball skipped of the water twice, bounced up off the pond bank, and landed 10 feet from the hole. One conservative pitch to the hole and a lucky putt, and I’d accomplished a rare feat: PAR!
   
   The last hole was filled with solid contact and bad aim alike, but I couldn’t care less. I’d gotten my par, improved my skills, and had a great time out there. I thanked my caddy and hopped into the vehicle. Next stop, Java House – is there a better place to celebrate a great game?


3. Maybe teaching isn’t my cup of tea. No, I’m not jumping off the ship yet. It’s only been two days, and I’m always a lot harder on myself than anyone else is. The students are learning and seem to be enjoying the material I’m presenting, and really, that’s all that matters. I’m not doing too bad, I’d say.
   
   But I’m not really attaching onto this potential career like I thought I might. I sort of imagined having the knack for presenting Shakespearean writing to high schoolers, and retaining their attention as if I was talking about the opposite gender. I pictured myself diagramming sentences on the board, turning around, and seeing 30 sophomores bent over their papers, scribbling notes down on how to effectively use grammar. I envisioned seeing my former students - hardly able to form a complete thought their freshmen year – coming back to Alumni weekend with their Pulitzers and best-selling books, insisting that they couldn’t have done it without me.
   
   Of course, nothing – especially Shakespeare – retains the attention of high schoolers, so that’s out. And sadly, not everyone is as fascinated with sentence structure and syntax as I am, especially sophomores, so that’s probably no good, either. And as for the dozens of scholars I’d transform into professional journalists, I do recognize how naive it is to think that any of my hypothetical students would get their books published before mine, so cross that off too.
   
   I’m not ready to give up, though. This is a difficult subject to teach because interest in it isn’t as high as, say, a music or art class. The (lack of) reaction I get in class is probably as much as, if not more than, Mrs. Rusunescu. And heck, man, I’m only in day two! No problem, I’ll be a pro by Friday.
   
   I hope.

Okee, I think it’s about bed time. Take care, home, and, hey, drop an email every once in a while. I think people forgot I’m 2857240857245872 miles away from home. Later!

-cw