Читать книгу Muzungu - Pamela Sisman Bitterman - Страница 4

I feel bad that I don’t feel worse.

Michael Frayn

The puddle jumper that flies me over from Nairobi touches down at a scrappy airstrip on the outskirts of Kisumu, the third largest city in Kenya. I’m the only non-African aboard. Half of the dozen other passengers squeeze out onto the tarmac ahead of me, while the remaining bunch presses tightly on my tail. Punch-drunk giddy, I emerge from the plane like the gooey cream center of an Oreo. The flight has taken less than an hour but it has made an indelible impression on me. It was barely daylight when the plane took off. The pilot flew low enough that with my face glued to my miniature, warped, plastic window, I was able to spot majestic Mount Kenya off in the brightening dawn. I also made out dusky herds of wild creatures lazily traversing their way along the undulating, flame-speckled yellow and felt-green highway that could have only been the Great Rift Valley. “Pami, girl,” I whispered in hushed awe of the legendary landscape “you really are in Africa.”

Nancy Hardison is waiting to collect me. I spot her standing behind a gated area some fifty yards away. She is poised with her head thrown back, her arms stretched wide, and a radiant smile to match. Her pretty pastel skirt and blouse ripple in the sultry breeze and her noble crown of dull-blond-tinted, gray hair is mussed and flying loose from its pins. She looks pleased as punch . . . and is the only other Caucasian as far as my bleary eyes can see.

I shuffle over, hefting the weight of all my worldly possessions—here in Kenya, anyway—for the next two months, in my son’s worn backpack. When I reach Nan she hugs me long and hard like a dear old friend whom she’s been separated from for years. Then she introduces me to James, the heavily sweating, broadly smiling Kenyan man who will be our driver. He extends an enthusiastic, moist handshake—my first of an innumerable stream of the obligatory national greetings—grabs my pack and gives us both a hurried shove toward our transport, which turns out to be a clunky, rust-buttressed, navy blue van with most of its seats ripped out. James is bundled up in a purple, polyester-blend, button-down, long-sleeved shirt, saggy dress trousers with a missing waistband button, and scuffed-up street shoes with no laces or socks. His uniform, I guess. It is hot, equatorial-Africa hot, and I’m stripping off sticky layers like a mad woman. I apologize for still being in my long pants with low-cut undershirt and fleece, the rumpled outfit I’ve been traveling in for the past eighty hours. The proper mission attire which is standard for women—modest blouse and ankle-length skirt—is still buried somewhere in my pack. Nan waves off my impropriety with a “pshaw,” instead apologizing to me for having to fetch me in the hospital’s emergency vehicle. “This is our ambulance!” she boasts. “The mission’s two vehicles are in the shop.” I soon learn that that is almost always where they are.

Nan chats merrily and a little manically, as we drive the thirty kilometers from Kisumu to Maseno. I have been awake and hoofing it around the planet for three days, so I’m only able to slur dopey, semi-coherent responses, as I grapple to make sense of the distressing scenery. Kisumu is an actual city. It is not lovely, not Blixen’s picturesque village but rather a dirty, garbage-strewn, scummy, steamy skid row crawling with raggedy locals who look either sick or stoned and seem to reek of misery. This is not what I’d envisioned as the African misery that I had come to alleviate. There are no little, naked babies with swollen bellies and mouths swarming with flies, like on TV in the infomercials. It is more like Tijuana in my worst nightmare. I hold on, white-knuckled, to the bare metal frame of the bench seat in front of me, as we carom through slums on roads so marginal that James keeps veering down onto the steep gravel periphery to avoid cavernous potholes. A toxic cloud of grime streams in the windows, coagulating my sour sweat into a gritty paste.

We drive straight up, climbing out of the urban swill and away from the filthy shores of polluted Lake Victoria—no, not Livingston’s scenic mere—but where malaria, bilharzia, the hideously monstrous Nile perch, and suffocating, exotic, water hyacinths dwell. We reach an elevation of over four thousand feet, where the cool pastoral township of Maseno lies. Just as we pass an intersection, lined with trees shading decrepit lean-tos and milling Kenyans who, like James, all seem absurdly overdressed, we spin off the paved highway, such as it is, and onto a deep, red, mud-rutted road that shakes apart whatever hasn’t already been rattled loose in the vehicle or in me. A quarter mile later our van lurches through a rough, open gate cut into a droopy chicken-wire fence and enters the grounds of St. Philips Theological College. After spinning out in the wet grass, James shudders to a stop in front of a lumpy cement wall. A woman who looks startlingly like me pounces from a wooden slab bench that is wedged into the trunk of a massive sheltering tree.

“Welcome!” she gushes as she grabs both of my hands. It immediately occurs to me that she is too animated for the heat and too desperate for my rapidly dissipating peace of mind. “I’m Stephanie!” She appears to be about my age, wears a long skirt and a dashiki-type tunic and also sports a short gray haircut. She is clearly overjoyed to see me and this is alarming.

“Hi . . . Pam. Stephanie?” I mumble through a goofy smile.

“Come into the house for something to eat. You’ve missed breakfast and lunch won’t be served for hours.” Nan politely invites only me while locking my clammy arm in hers. She chatters away as she uses her free hand to wrestle with a giant, padlocked, metal barrier that leads to an open-air alcove. We are met by a bounding Simba (Swahili for “lion”), the Hardisons’ massive, shaggy yellow dog, and an exuberant Chui (Swahili for “cheetah”), their stouter, rounder hound. They attack me as soon as the door swings ajar. Nan orders me to quickly shut the barrier behind me, cautioning me not to let the dogs squeeze past as they scare the children walking to and from the nursery school, and they chase the chickens. A sickish, surreal, dream-state fog - of the stale stench of sodden polyester, intense pollution and scorched-earth ghetto, intermingling with playful romping dogs, happy sheltered children, healthy free-range chickens, and some ambushing, overly ecstatic lady who is my mirror image - swirls in my mushy head.

Nan gently deposits me in a sturdy wooden chair at a substantial oak table that takes up most of the space in the stark room. The floors are bare concrete. A few semi-stuffed worn chairs, a fully stuffed and lopsided bookshelf, and a single couch that is clearly the dogs’ domain, finish out the area. Random bits of local art are scattered unceremoniously about. An entire wall of the room is lined with windows that face out onto the dirt road we’ve just driven in on. A hard African sun jutting through fat, emerald leaves of wind-whipped trees spills into the room and creates a foreboding latticework of light, eerily shafted by the thick iron bars shielding the glass.

Nan putters away in the pantry. The kitchen itself, a room with a gas stove and oven, a sink with running water, and cooking paraphernalia scattered about, is across the alcove in an adjacent building that also houses the Hardisons’ facilities—a bona fide bathroom complete with toilet, shower, tub, and vanity. Back in the living quarters Nan serves me hard-boiled eggs, buttered toast, and cold lemonade. As I am reeling from travel and feeling dangerously nauseous, I politely decline most of it. Little do I know that it will be the most eggs, butter, toast, or cold anything that I will see for some time. But so far nothing has been anything I was expecting, so how am I to know? At the table I am joined by Nan, who is at once warm and friendly, happy and gracious, sweet and smiley. I will see this same Nan again during my stay but she won’t be a regular. Like the electricity, the rains, and the revolving cast of characters who come to volunteer, I will learn that Nan’s moods are also ephemeral and unpredictable—a dead-on, accurate barometer for life at St. Philips. Nancy Hardison will come to represent the living, breathing manifestation of the gentle or violent, organic or inorganic, human or inhuman forces of nature that shape her beloved Kenya.

Once the snack is cleared away, Nan, as animated as a little kid showing off a cherished toy, hauls me off to where I’ll be staying. “Can’t I live here with you guys?” I yearn to plead as she drags me away across the wavy green meadow around the aforementioned flighty chickens, a skinny cow, and a bunch of sheep so closely shorn that for weeks I’ll think they are goats. Up ahead in a small clutter of identical-looking structures looms the visitors’ quarters, a loafy, listing, whitewashed cement block with a small red plastic bucket on the stoop. I notice that a different-colored bucket is propped beside the entrance to each building and I silently command myself to remember Nan’s words, “Yours has the red one!”

A blockade of slab timber opens into a wedge of dark corridor that divides the seven bedrooms, four to one side and three to the other. Nan proudly shows me the room she has chosen for me. It is about eight by ten feet, has its own locking door—padlock on the outside, dead bolt from within—a window with bars and no glass but a creaky wooden shutter propped open with a branch, two single cots with saggy foam mattresses that look like slices of wet Wonder bread, two plastic mosquito nets suspended from nails and trussed up over each bed, one wobbly wooden table and chair, and a roughed-out set of shelves. A jaundiced, lonely, bare lightbulb hangs from the water-stained, peeling-painted, plasterboard ceiling, and one dodgy-looking electrical outlet, ostensibly for when there is power, dangles from an insipid concrete wall. The windowsill is adorned with a droopy candle, a box of matches, and a bottle of water. On the desk lies two limp, threadbare towels and two rolls of infirmary-blue toilet paper. Each bed has a blanket, pillow, and a set of sheets, all clean and looking as if they’ve been washed—more like pounded with a rock in a stream—about a million times. “And the other bed is for Joe when he comes!” Nan flings out her arm and announces with theatrical pomp.

At my behest, my husband met with the Hardisons in California and put his mind to rest, seeing for himself that they weren’t lunatic zealots like the nightmarish images he couldn’t shake of the tragic couple in At Play in the Fields of the Lord or the whack job from The Mosquito Coast. He was reconciled to my going. By meeting Nan and Gerry he was reassured that my hosts were relatively sane, well-meaning people. But Joe isn’t coming. I’ve known this for some time, if not always. Yet I choose not to divulge at this exact moment that he isn’t going to show up in Maseno. My little adventure is exhibiting all the earmarks of one lengthy ordeal. With my old survivor’s wits keenly re-attuned, I already have a sharp eye looking out for numero uno, circling the wagons if you will. As it turns out, this is auspicious. I am adequate volunteer material, a pleasant complement to the gathering group of visitors. Joe, on the other hand, a pharmacist with medical connections and actual skills, is likely the far more anticipated, honored guest. So by not coming clean about Joe not coming, I manage to hang onto the extra bed, bedding, towel, and toilet paper. And these meager items end up being golden.

“Do not lose this!” Nan orders as she presents me with my itty-bitty lock. Then, encircling my neck with a lanyard dangling an even tinier key, like the one I had for my Annie Oakley diary when I was seven, she whispers, “Lock your room every time you leave it!”

“Oh, you bet! So no one can steal all this groovy stuff,” I chuckle to myself, still so naïve. We proceed, actually just pirouette around, with the rest of the tour. At the end of the hallway are, surprise! two toilets that flush most of the time, although I have no idea where anything that goes down goes. There is a short, blue-lidded pail beside each commode, “for toilet paper and any other non-organic matter,” a cold-water tap with a semi-affixed, precariously listing wall sink, and two open, cement shower stalls. In truth, everything in the dormitory is far more in the way of amenities than I had expected. I’d actually rather hoped we’d be camping out, like in the safari movies. Instead, it’s like we’re squatting in the projects.

As the day progresses, I meet the other volunteers and realize that almost all are representatives of some larger group, family, church, or school which sends its members or constituents on similar missions. My first night on the compound, I’m asked if I am awaiting the arrival of friends from home. I imagine I appear singularly misplaced.

“Oh, god no!” I answer with a vigorous shake of my head. “No one I know would come here.”

“Really?! Why ever not?” Stephanie, my new twin, asks with genuine astonishment.

“Well, because they’d probably die.” I answer as though it’s a silly question, but I elaborate anyway. “First off, most of the folks I’m acquainted with wouldn’t eat a single thing here. And besides,” I add with a shrug as though overstating the obvious, “they would never be able to poop.”

Toilets are a bizarre symbol of the civilized niceties that many of us citizens of today’s first world take for granted. Consider for a moment our nation’s escalating dependency upon and consequent on-the-spot access to paper toilet-seat covers. But, as Nan promises, there are virtually no toilets in all of rural Kenya. St. Philips has them, though, and other delights, like showers. I never imagined that while in Africa I’d be able to just step into a stone closet, flick a disembodied switch lying in a pool of slime, turn a corroded crank handle to open a rusty spigot, and have water channeled from raised tanks on the property, providing a steady stream of water, warmed by heating elements in a system similar to those in electric European teapots. I can bask in the drizzle for as long as my conscience will allow.

The Hardisons ask that we take minimalist showers and be conservative with both water and electricity. This would present no problem for me, as conventional showers are modern comforts that I was prepared to do without. I’d cruised for many years on a ship where cold, saltwater, deck-bucket rinses were the norm. And prior to going to sea, I had affixed a circa-1970s, northern-California cabin roof with black plastic pipe that solar-heated the water I pumped up from my well and gravity-fed to a hose I had strung in a nearby acacia grove. And I am in Africa. Consequently, under the circumstances, the Maseno dorm shower feels positively decadent. That is, when it works. But it isn’t the shower’s unreliability that concerns me. We are simply lucky to have either water or power on the compound since both are practically nonexistent in much of the rest of the country. Yet, either due to drought which makes the stream a mere dribble or to storms which blow through and knock down the town’s jerry-rigged electrical wires, both are, at best, inconsistent at St. Philips. All of this is unavoidable and all of it is fine with me. Nevertheless, I do have moments of pause while using these facilities, once I get wind of a disquieting rumor that is being bandied about among the volunteers.

Seems our brand of heating apparatuses has already been credited with cooking a fair number of do-gooders in the country. The obvious flaws in electrical mechanisms of this type combined with the inevitable standing water, bare wires, and faulty switches of our dorms’ setups create a shockingly conducive environment for a mass electrocution. I never know for certain if the urban legend is true but I get a stunning visual in spite of myself every time I stand in my soupy puddle and hit the switch. My clothes remain on until the last possible second to avoid my being found poached naked. Then, balancing precariously on one rubber flip-flop, I hike the other leg up in midair so as not to be the conduit for the electrical arc or some such scientific nonsense. Truthfully, I have no idea what I’m doing but the pose does make me feel better. Any locals witnessing my display probably write it off as a crazy muzungu cleansing ritual but I don’t care and I don’t miss a single daily dousing while in Kenya. In fact I have difficulty imagining a situation where it might be more imperative to get a good disinfecting scrub-down.

While on the continent, I feel like I am perpetually coated in sewerage. Maseno isn’t dirty, per se. It’s just that Kenya is so much more germ-infested, trash strewn, and unhygienic than I imagined it would be. The steamy heat, putrid stink, variety and virility of communicable diseases, constant mandatory physical contact, and the custom of cooking and eating with one’s bare hands make not having access to soap or water a running concern. Simply being able to slip under a lukewarm spritz at the conclusion of each contaminated workday alleviates my phobia of swarming, deadly contagion and in general wards off the queasy heebie-geebies. Any fear of being struck down in the process by a lethal jolt takes a sizable backseat. And those toilets! My first conversation with Stephanie’s brother Derrick, another volunteer, is all about the toilets.

“Nice, huh?” he says as he catches me examining one. “I’ve even considered dropping a couple bottles of Tuskers in the tank to chill!” Tuskers is the local beer named for and labeled with a picture of a full-tusked elephant. The idea of cooling a pint or two in the toilet tank seems brilliant until I am cautioned that because it is against the rules for St. Philips seminary students to have alcohol, we aren’t supposed to keep any on the compound either. But as the days wear on, it becomes apparent that that is not going to be an option for me. My subsequent quest to acquire, conceal, and consume my stash of liquid contraband serves as a valuable distraction from the day-to-day monotony, disillusionment, and despair of Kenya while, in no way that I can see, hindering my ethical or moral commitment to the mission. After finding out that alcohol can be purchased locally, my resolve is resolute, further fortified by my first dinner with the Hardisons where I discover that the good doctors nip regularly.

During that initial conversation with Derrick, I also learn that Nan and Gerry have their visitors over to dinner three nights a week. Besides these festive evenings, all our meals are prepared by the hired Kenyan cooks in an open fire pit in a grimy back shed, and taken in the dining hall with the seminary students and compound laborers. Along with this is a tacit acceptance that any attention to even the most basic sanitation standards concerning food handling is not being nearly paid.

“Oh, boy!” I say upon hearing that we’ll be having dinner parties. “So, how come we get to eat at the Hardisons’ house?”

“Well, they say it’s because there’s no meat served in the dining hall on these nights but I don’t think that’s their real reason,” Derrick confides. “I think they like the company and it’s their way of sort of keeping tabs on the volunteers. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays are the evenings we all go over there. Tonight will be your first one!”

By this time I’ve already had a couple of communal meals of traditional Kenyan fare, reasonable portions of mysterious foodstuffs of questionable quality. The Hardisons’ policy of introducing visitors to what the locals eat and having us share most of our meals with them is one I applaud. And once I am able to shut off the “Public Health Warning” alert flashing in my frontal lobe, I like most of the vegetarian-type food offered. But the occasion to eat in the Big House, as I come to refer to it, becomes the high point of each day on which it is to occur. High points are hard to come by in Maseno. There is immense suffering, little diversion . . . no escape. We revel in whatever windfalls we get.

“Nan and Gerry serve dinner promptly at six thirty and you do not want to be late. Nan gets just furious!” David warns me. David is a veteran volunteer who is already into his sixth month of a yearlong commitment to St Philips. The angelic Nan I know, furious? Nah, not possible, I reassure myself. I’ll soon learn that I am mistaken about this. I’m not late, though.

Our bunch, a half dozen or so, of resident volunteers all stroll in the house together on time. When we get there, Nan and Gerry are each sitting in one of the stuffed chairs. The dogs instantly leap on us from where they were sprawled on old sheets on the dog couch. The same big table at which I had not eaten my first Kenyan meal is lavished in food—fresh handmade chapattis, beans, rice, some kind of cooked meat that smells not too terrible, slices of avocado, tomatoes and fresh pineapple, a tin of butter cookies, boxes of fruit juice, and lo and behold, two boxes of wine, one red and one white. But my brain doesn’t allow me to believe in the wine just yet. It would be too cruel and unusual a tease to dare hope. I am still a doubter so I pour some juice, a real treat in and of itself. There are glasses, plates, silverware, and even napkins. We line up on Nan’s instruction and begin serving ourselves buffet style, then find a seat and sit with our food in our laps. Not until we have all filled our plates do Nan and Gerry help themselves.

“So, who would like to say grace tonight?” Nan asks before anyone has begun eating. It is either David or Derrick who usually does the honors. Otherwise, it is Nan. We all bow our heads and one of them recites aloud a standard religious prayer rather more intricate than the “God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food” verse that I was raised with. The more literate churchgoers pray along. Then we all eat. The ravenous slurps and grateful moans of ecstatic diners echo throughout the Spartan room. The dogs drool rivers.

“Pam, you’re not having any wine?” Nan asks.

“Ha ha. No, I think I’ll pass,” I laugh between stuffed mouthfuls, intoxicated with the epicurean feast and thrilled to be treated as one of the gang, thinking I am being initiated into the fold with an inside joke.

“Well, it’s not fine wine, but it’s not half bad either,” Nan continues, a little offended. “Won’t you have some?” she coaxes.

“Wine? Really?” I risk.

“Really,” Stephanie nods.

“Are you sure?” I hesitate, not anxious to be punked.

“Sure,” David confirms as he stands to fetch me a glass. “Red or white?”

It is too good to be true. Before the evening has ended, both boxes are drained. If there is ice needing to be broken at my first dinner at the Hardisons’, the wine hacks the bejabbers out of it. Our wary band of befuddled, tired, hungry, nervous, full-bellied, and well-oiled volunteers mingles far less rigidly. Further fueled by the “not-half-bad” vino, some even begin to let their prim pride dissipate. Stephanie confesses to everyone that the greatest lesson she has learned from her Maseno experience is to “never switch from dry to wet deodorant in Africa.” As she airs her squelchy armpits we all howl. Someone makes a droll remark about the hospital that even Gerry chuckles at. Then he prompts Nan to sing their infamous “liver song,” one of the Hardison’s idiosyncratic pet amusements that I’ve already been forewarned about, and we all dissolve in hysterics right along with them even though most of us haven’t a clue why it is remotely funny. Derrick again proclaims the “absolutely no fat in the Kenyan diet” pledge like it is some fantastic new weight-loss scheme which I begin to believe it is. He brags that he lost a quarter of his mass the last time he came to the Maseno mission and David concurs, admitting that he was once a big fatty but has found staying slim and trim in Kenya to be an absolute breeze. I begin to wonder if the “reach your dream physique without really trying” pitch hasn’t appealed to a quorum of the folks here, a sleek silver lining to their faithful sacrifice. I can’t say that I myself have been entirely immune to the lure of that carrot stick, a “visit Africa, do good, lose weight,” all-inclusive package deal.

The happy-hour atmosphere is warm and loose. Being able to down a few while letting down our hair every now and again will, I am convinced, steel my resolve to spar with the best of them. I feel like I have arrived, so at one point in the evening I confess my unabashed thrill at not having to pretend to relish sobriety for the next couple months at St. Philips. A stern Nan corrects me. “Oh no, Pam. The mission is, for all intent and purpose, bone-dry, dear. In other words,” she goes on, “we keep our drinking strictly hush-hush. And we dispose of any incriminating evidence very discreetly.”

“Why the cloak-and-dagger bit?” I ask.

“Well, mostly so as not to offend, of course,” Nan explains. “But also so our image will not be sullied. We fear it will interfere with the work we are trying to do here and the goals we are attempting to accomplish. It could be misunderstood.”

“Tell her what we do with our empties,” Gerry urges with a devilish sneer. Besides playing straight man to Nan’s rendition of the liver song, he has barely said two words all night.

Nan lets loose a big guffaw and gurgles with the mischief of an errant adolescent. “We hide them in a bag and wait until we’re making a run to Kisumu. Then we sneak the bag into the car and pitch the empties out the window as we drive down the street!” She and Gerry both rock forward in their chairs and roar. I find myself unable to hold back the laughter as well, picturing this old missionary couple cackling like crones and merrily flinging dead soldiers out the window of their ancient vehicle as it swerves down the holey road to town.

While wandering around the grounds the next couple of days trying to get my bearings, I discover that the compound has three entrances and exits. The most used is the driveway through which the vehicles pass. The least used is barely a path at all, just trampled reeds in high grasses that poke through a hole in the fence, back behind the residential buildings. You have to bushwhack to get to it, and deadly snakes—a green Mamba most recently—have reportedly been caught and killed in the thick weeds. This path spills onto a couple of trails that weave through wild pastures, and lead via a shortcut, to the small business district of Maseno. I hardly ever use the back route. I don’t feel comfortable tackling this unpopulated passageway alone. When left to my own devices, I invariably take a wrong turn and get lost. Aside from nicer scenery and a somewhat shorter walk, the only advantage is that if done right, this course is a straight shot to the post office. Our only real reason for going to the post office is to send and receive e-mails on one of the antiquated computers set up there in a makeshift lab. But the Internet at the post office goes down the second day I am in Kenya, naturally right after I have purchased a bunch of access-coded time cards. It never comes back online during my stay. An additional reason for my reticence in using the rear trail is that there is no way that I can see to keep it secure. I never know who I might find lurking in the bushes. Hopefully the snakes are a deterrent to unwanted intruders, or at least do a number on those who are undeterred. In any event, I mostly come and go from door number three.

The side entrance, the one almost always used for foot traffic, has twenty-four-hour security. The guard carries a big stick, wears a uniform, lounges in a little hut, and waves lethargically as we enter or exit from the gate in the fence that leads out onto the dirt road. There is a padlock hanging at the entrance but I never see it closed. Nevertheless, I suspect that it is always locked after dark. “After dark” is a big deal in Kenya. Virtually no one goes out at all after the sun goes down and positively no one leaves the compound. Even the Kenyans are afraid to be out at night. While I’m in Kenya, sunset is around seven in the evening, which does make for a stretch of tediously long nights in the dorm.

I get the feeling that the side gate is the official pedestrian entry anyway. Posted on a stick just inside the fence is a squat billboard that reads St. Philips Theological College, with arrows pointing to the Office, Nursery School, Bookshop, Computer Centre, Hostels, Library, Dining Hall, and Chapel. In big letters is a friendly, baby-blue WELCOME, splashed across the bottom. The first time I spot the sign, I am puzzled. Where exactly is all this stuff? As it turns out, everything advertised does exist, housed in buildings that all look pretty much alike and are scattered about the property among the trees and fields, seemingly with no order or plan. And everything is not what one might expect from the descriptions, but nothing in Kenya is.

The office is Nan’s domain. There are a couple of desks and chairs, some file cabinets, a computer and printer, and a separate cubicle with a window looking into the main office for Nan’s Kenyan bookkeeper. The nursery school, a single, long, stumpy row house with two classrooms and a tiny office way off to the rear of the compound, is where I’ll end up spending a good deal of my time.

The bookshop is just past the sign and inside, has one cabinet with some random school supplies like paper and standard No. 2, as well as colored, pencils. A couple shelves display local crafts for sale, woven baskets and such. And there is a wall shelf of mostly paperback books that are for trade—bring in two and get one back, kind of deal. For everyone but David, that is. He confides to me that he alone is permitted to browse, borrow, and read unconditionally.

The computer centre is a small airless room with half a dozen or so prehistoric desktop models for the seminary students to practice on. No Internet access, though. The hostels are our dorms, five in all. One building is for the volunteers, one is a house for the two female students, two are houses for the dozen or so males, and one is for the instructors. The library is another house that has books in it, mostly religious reference books for the theology students. The chapel is right smack in the middle of the whole shebang. It is one unadorned, narrow, rectangular room with a steeple, pews, and an altar. I can see it from my door, walk past it anytime I go anywhere on the compound, hear all the daily prayer meetings and songs, and never once step foot inside. How odd. It just never occurs to me.

Rounding out the compound is the Hardisons’ cottage, a couple of other small, modest, house-type structures for various special or long-term residents, the dining hall and cookhouse, and a massive fire pit where positively everything gets tossed in to burn. The flames smolder day and night producing a leaden, toxic, smoke cloud that hovers menacingly over the whole of St Philips.

Just in front of the Hardisons’ house sprawls a largish building with a couple of big-windowed, open classrooms. And there’s a smaller, darker building—also with classrooms—over by the nursery school. I rarely see or hear the seminary students in class, although I have to think that they attend some of the time. I see them filing in and out of the chapel and at meals and often just milling about in small groups where they perhaps could be discussing theological notions. There is a table and a couple of chairs out in front of our dorm where they tend to gather. In the beginning, whenever I’d join them there, one of the students would run over and set up an umbrella for me.

That made me uncomfortable, but it ceases to happen after the first few days. A ragged volleyball net droops in the clearing near a couple of lines strung for hanging out the wash. We often watch and sometimes join in the late afternoon volleyball games with the seminary crowd. Some easily identified item of my eccentric clothing can usually be spotted flapping uncouthly in the breeze.

Everything I wear in Kenya is off those seasonal racks from one of my husband’s drugstores. Each item cost me only a couple dollars and some shrink up to the size of a handkerchief after the first wash. Others stretch to fit a linebacker. When my daughter sees one particular skirt that I’ve chosen, a multicolored, tablecloth-like frock with bright ruffles covered in sequins, she says, “Oh nice, Mom. I can just picture you in that, being chased through the jungle to the shrieking taunts of ‘SHA-KA-KA, she-devil.’ ”

I’ve mentioned the cow and several sheep that are herded and staked about the property, led to wherever the grass needs chomping down. It is not uncommon to see adorable baby animals following their mothers around, mewing and stumbling, all big-eyed, soft, and downy-looking. But the Kenyans ignore these babes, as they do all non-essential animals in the country. Puppies, kittens, calves, chimps, goat kids, and chicks. No matter how cute or cuddly. Animals are animals here—either beasts of burden or sources of food. They are an additional mouth to feed or an extra orphan competing for the limited foodstuffs. Even the children don’t play with them. Kenya is essentially a pet-less nation.

There is other wildlife on the compound but, like the deadly snakes, not much is said about them. One night during my first week at St. Philips, I am tiptoeing across the meadow after dark, obsessively following the weak, bobbing beam emanating from the idiotic headset that is strung around my skull and slipping down over one eyeball. We had been advised to bring this type of flashlight so that when we are walking around in the dreaded dark we’ll have our hands free to ward off whatever. I am trying to find David’s place. Because David is committed to the mission for a full year, he qualifies for residence in one of the private houses complete with its own kitchen where he has installed a water-filtering apparatus.

We are not able to drink the water in Kenya, are even cautioned not to use it to brush our teeth as there are all sorts of nasty microscopic bugs swimming around in it, waiting to ravage our intestinal tracts. However, we are each provided upon arrival with one bottle that we can refill at any time from the dining hall’s big black rubber vat with its ready supply of stale, standing, boiled water, which is permanently soupy, warm, and tasting like sour beef jerky that has been cured in an old truck tire. My gag reflex kicks in every time I try to swallow some. David and I become friends early on and he says I can fill up at his house anytime. The problem is remembering to check my water bottle before dark. Dehydration is a constant concern in Kenya and going the night without drinking is not an option. I would even choke down the jerky swill in an emergency, but the dining hall door is always locked after dinner. So I’m forced to grab my empty bottle and boldly strike out to find David. Nighttime in Maseno is pitch-black, but the mission glimmers from the buildings’ lightbulbs if the electricity is working, or candles or flashlights if it isn’t. They can be spotted floating like fireflies across the shadowy, forbidding expanse of meadow. I have significant difficulty locating David’s house during the day. After dark I am completely hopeless, but I am also thirsty.

Even in broad daylight the meadow is treacherous. Ruts, sticks, vines, and holes lurk everywhere, waiting to trip up an unwary walker. I fall down all the time. At night though, the obstacle course grows deadly serious. All the “knowns” are bad enough but a whole slew of unknowns emerge after sundown and African unknowns are not to be trifled with. The dim lights radiating from the various buildings on the compound provide my only relative bearings, so I make my way from one building to the next, zigzagging a course which seems to connect the dots. I have neglected to pay due heed to the zillions of strange brown orbs dangling from the trees throughout the property. During the day they are curious non-entities that mildly spark my interest. I haven’t yet thought to inquire about them, and that turns out to be a big mistake. At night these orbs transform into packs of darting, swooping, attack-bats in a feeding frenzy. I have to bob and weave to keep from being dive-bombed by swarms of the ratty, airborne creatures. So I take evasive action, avoiding the wide-open areas as much as possible, and try to stay within arm’s length of the buildings, clinging to them like safe-bases in a game of tag.

While oonching around a shed attached to the computer lab, with my headlamp pointed down so I can safely plant my feet, I smack square into an alien. Well, it looks like an alien and it is armed with a menacing, bulky weapon-type thing. Before I can catch my breath and scream, the monster begins apologizing effusively in Swahili. Whew, Swahili! Who’d have guessed I’d be relieved to be alone, bumping into a gigantic Kenyan man in an eerie disguise, in the middle of the creepy night? The vision before me, sheathed head to toe in ghostly, gossamer white, seems as startled as I am. We stand there, stuck in a freak-out stalemate, until he thinks to drop the weapon, grab his flashlight, and train the beam on himself. Inside his massive headdress I recognize a human face, a broad, smiling, gigantic male African face, but human to be sure.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I blurt out, forgetting my missionary manners. “I mean, heck,” I correct myself.

“Me, mama? You!” he laughs. Then he pantomimes his mission and even activates his weapon for effect, shooting a gaseous bitter cloud in my direction. I hold my breath, fearing that it is DDT or some poisonous derivative thereof. Turns out it is a smoky insect tranquilizer. “Bzzzzzz,” he hisses and whips his free hand around as if swatting at something.

“Bees?” I inquire. “You’re messing with bees?”

He nods his mesh-helmeted head. My silly forehead light has now slid down over both of my eyes but I can still make out through his netting that I am thoroughly entertaining him. “Maamaaaa,” he scolds. “Why are you out at night?”

“I happen to be on my way to David’s house,” I state in defense although I’m sure it only makes me look more foolish.

“Davis?” he asks. All the Kenyans call David, Davis, to avoid confusion because there was already a David on the compound when he arrived. “It is just there, mama.” He gestures to the structure several meters behind me. Like the muzungu that I am, I’d staggered right on past.

“Ah, yes. Well, asanti.” I mumble my chagrined thank you in Swahili as I shakily make my way to “Davis’s” house.

I pound on David’s locked door and as it opens I ask him, “What is up with that guy out there in the Good Humor Ice Cream costume?”

“What is up with you wandering around in the dark?” he reprimands as he ushers me inside.

I hold up my empty water bottle and persist, “Who is that guy and what the hell is he doing? Heck, I mean,” I correct myself again, remembering that David is a pretty godly guy. I am still a little rattled.

“He’s one of the workers here. You probably didn’t recognize him in his beekeeper getup, huh?” David says as he takes my bottle and begins to fill it.

“What bees?”

“Why, the African killer bees in the grove of trees out back. He was harvesting the honey. Nan doesn’t openly advertise that the bees are on the grounds because, well, you can imagine. Their hive isn’t located where any visitors will accidentally come upon it so there isn’t any actual danger to the volunteers. And the workers know it’s there. All the same, we did have a little, um, unfortunate incident not too long ago.”

“Oh Jesus, I mean golly. What happened?” I ask, morbidly curious and happy to stretch out my visit, postponing my long, lame, lost walk home.

“A town drunk came stumbling down the road, tipped over, and then decided just to sleep it off in the grass under the trees. That area didn’t used to be fenced off. It is now. Anyhow, we presume that the bees woke up before he did and stung him to death. We found him in the morning.”

“Shit! Shoot. No, shit!!!” I exclaim. I make David escort me back to the dorm. After shaking out any of the deadly insects that may have taken up residence in my bedding during my absence, I drift off into a fitful sleep muttering, “Snakes and bats and bees, OH MY!”

As promised, Nan had sent me a visitors’ orientation letter several weeks prior to my departure for Kenya. I had the document practically memorized by the time I left, having followed every suggestion to the letter, checking off tasks when they were completed or items when they were purchased. My list looked like a scribbled mess, complete with cartoon doodles in the margins, depicting easily imagined catastrophes. Nevertheless, after arriving in Maseno and spending a few days here, it’s become obvious that the bulk of my preparations were for naught, and I’m not alone in this realization. Visitors are continually complaining about some aspect of their “unpreparedness” and Nan, when she gets wind of it, doesn’t handle it well. A bunch of aimless fussbudgets is the last thing she needs to be worrying about. All the same, those in the know, namely David, inform me that this is an ongoing issue with the mission. So, in my vexation, I determine that the orientation letter needs a serious revision and that I am just the grumbler for the job. David offers to help me and Nan approves, probably relieved to get at least one dismayed dissident off her back.

David and I spend one gloriously productive hour each day for about a week drafting the new orientation letter before submitting the polished version to Nan. Most of the original information is the same, with the omission of some items that have become obsolete, and the addition of others that seem timely. I don’t know how much of it Nan keeps or how much is relegated to the editing floor. I never see a formal copy nor does Nan say a word to me about my draft at any point during my stay. What follows is the final installment of what David and I present to her. My more noteworthy contributions appear in italics for clarification. The editorializing that is not included in the official letter is bracketed and in bold.

WELCOME TO MASENO MISSION CENTER

Dear Volunteers, Visitors, and Guests, [This addition is directed to people like those whom I regularly encounter who seem to just show up and hang around.]

The staff of the Maseno Mission Center welcomes you to help with its many service projects that provide food, medicine, healthcare, education, and spiritual awareness to Kenyans in the greater Maseno area. The following suggestions and information may help you to prepare for this life-changing experience.

LOCATION:

Maseno is situated 22 kilometers from Kisumu, Kenya’s third largest city. [This previously read Kenya’s “Second City,” and was misleading. Mombasa is the second largest city.] Kisumu sits on the shores of Lake Victoria. Maseno’s elevation is approximately 4000 feet above sea level. As we are very near the equator, the temperature is generally warm but not too terribly hot even in the middle of the day, and pleasantly cool in the evenings and early mornings. There is quite a lot of rain from late March to June, and from August to October, but it can rain other months as well.

TRAVEL:

Explore the Internet for bargain flights. [Good Luck.] Tourists abound during summer holidays, so book flights at your earliest convenience. From Nairobi, flights to Kisumu are available on East African Safari Air Express, sometimes listed as Eagle Air, [good to know] and Kenya Airways twice daily on weekdays, with more flights on Fridays and Sundays. The two best bus services are Easy Coach and Akamba. Both will get you to Kisumu in approximately 7 hours, but the early morning Easy Coach will get you all the way to Maseno. [I feel this is important information to include in spite of the fact that few people opt for the bus even though it is a good deal and cheaper than flying. Actually, while I am at the mission, Ian is the only one who chooses not to fly up. Nan neglects to advise him that however he travels, he should NOT plan to arrive in Kisumu after dark as it is very dangerous and no one will come to fetch him at night. Consequently, when he misses the early bus and calls to assure her that he’ll be on the later one, Nan has a certifiable fit. She tells him he’d better find a way to get his butt up there in daylight. He does, by jumping on another bus taking a circuitous route, but arriving in the late afternoon. It is a close call, a less than ideal introduction for poor Ian, and an interesting insight into Nan. So this section should read: Arrive in daylight. NO ONE goes out after dark in Kenya so if you get in late you can just count on fending for yourself overnight in god-forsaken Kisumu.]

Once you deplane in Nairobi, if you do not yet have a visa, get in the line marked Visas and submit $50 with your passport. [I don’t know how I missed a need for clarification here, as this circumstance presented a problem for me when I arrived. Upon deplaning I changed all my money from dollars to shillings at the first Money Exchange window I came to, just past my gate. Then I proceeded to the long Visa line where, when I finally reached the front, the agent told me that I had to pay in dollars. I was required to return to the exchange window to get $50 back in U.S. currency and then go back and get into the line again for my visa. I was assigned an officer with a big gun to escort me as no “going in reverse” is allowed. This section should have the idiot-proof addendum: Hold on to $50 in U.S. currency, as you will need that to pay for your visa. I do not believe I’m the only one who ever made this mistake.] You can also get a visa through the Kenyan Embassy in the U.S., but it is easier and faster to get it once you’ve arrived at the Nairobi airport. [It still is, plus the embassy in Los Angeles gave me incorrect information about what was required in the way of inoculations and paperwork. Nan and Gerry do know better. They live there.]

Once you have cleared passport control, go down the stairs to the baggage and customs area. There is a Money Exchange office inside the baggage and customs area and an ATM outside customs. There will also be kiosks for buying phone cards from either Safaricom or Celtel, the two best Kenyan companies. [I did this straight away. I figured others might want to as well.] Make sure to change American dollars for taxis, hotels, and buses if you are spending the night in Nairobi. There are flush toilets on this level. [When I first saw this about toilets, I thought, What an odd item to just sort of throw in there . . . I never thought it odd again.] Retrieve your bags (carts are free) and head for the Taxi area. There will be a crowd holding signs for particular designated passengers but taxi drivers will assist you immediately. If you have an immediate connection to Kisumu, the domestic airline is nearby and well marked. [This is yet another area where I fail to correct an imperative. The domestic terminal is in fact separate; it is outside past baggage and security check and a quarter mile down the road. I didn’t know this, and the next morning I had the taxi driver drop me at the first long queue I spotted outside, near a Kenya Airways sign. After standing in the line for awhile, the security checker looked at my ticket and informed me that I was in the international terminal and instructed me to “Hurry, mama!” to the domestic terminal. I shouldered my monster backpack and ran down the road, getting to the next queue, waiting in another long line, and finally arriving at my gate with just minutes to spare. How did I not remember this?] Ask for directions. [Oh … ]

After purchasing your ticket, approximately 12,900KSh round-trip (KSh stands for Kenyan shillings), [It cannot be assumed that everyone knows this.] line up and go through security. For international flights in the U.S. the baggage limit is 70 lbs. On domestic flights within Kenya the limit is 45 lbs. If you are over the limit, you will have to return to the ticket office to pay the additional 60KSh per kilo. [I didn’t make note of this fact. But with everything I’d brought for the orphans, my pack was well over the proscriptive weight limit. Perhaps because I was sprinting, feeling flushed, crazed, and white, the agent allowed it. It wasn’t until I’d safely jumped aboard the tiny plane, which was so small that from my seat I could give the pilot in the cockpit a neck rub, that I worried, I hope everyone on this aircraft hasn’t been allowed extra weight.] When you reach Kisumu, a member of the mission staff will greet you.

If you are spending the night in Nairobi, make sure to arrive back at the airport at least 1 and 1/2 hours in advance. It is possible and advisable [I saw no way to get a cab at the hostel.] to arrange with the taxi driver who took you from the airport to return at a specified time the next day and pick you up to take you back to the airport. [I omit a warning not to count on being on time, as promptness isn’t much of a concept in Kenya. My taxi showed up but it rolled in about 30 minutes late, precipitating my frenzied leap from the vehicle at curbside and mad dash to the wrong terminal.]

Consolata Sisters Flora Hostel on Fifth Ngong Avenue across from the entrance to the Kenyatta National Hospital is clean, reasonably priced, and not far from the airport

(1600 to 2000 KSh taxi fare). [except everything is far from the airport] Please let them know when you book your room if you will be arriving on an evening flight so that they can leave a key to your room with the security guard at the gate. [The letter goes on to list the hostel’s phone and fax numbers, e-mail address, and cost for either a single with a private bath or double with a shared bath. I booked a single with private bath but that’s not what I got. It was well after dark when my taxi delivered me to Flora. From the airport, we drove around for a half hour and the trip was disturbing, to say the least. Nairobi is a cesspool: smelly, filthy, ominously barbed wired, barricaded, and much more of an industrialized, big-city nightmare than I ever imagined it would be. My driver, an eighteen-year-old kid named Ishmael, unwittingly introduced me to the Kenyan national pastime of locals asking muzungus for money. It took him over thirty minutes to find our destination and by the time we arrived at the hostel, the rod-iron gate was locked and the lights were out. In spite of my alerting the hostel that I’d be getting in late, the security guard did not have a room key for me. In fact, it wasn’t clear if he was even going to let me in at all. The trip would not have been totally in vain, though, as I was comprehensively enlightened en route. Ishmael told me how many family members he was responsible for, what each of their school fees were, what illnesses each individually suffered from, and how much the fare would be for him to return and pick me up in the early morning. Ishmael was a kind, honest, gentle-mannered, and solicitous young fellow. Even alone with him in a notoriously dangerous city in a corrupt country in the dark of night, I never felt threatened. He will become the prototype for the Kenyan workingman, in my experience. Most will display these qualities and most will ask me to sponsor them financially. Good to get this straight up front. It made it easier in the long run. Thank you, Ishmael.] Also, let them know if you are leaving before seven in the morning so that someone will be available to take your money. [The security guard rousted a sweet, little old lady in a sister/nun’s habit, who directed them to let me in, took my money, and gave me the room key. She informed me that everyone was already in bed and that I had missed dinner. I guessed as much, as the whole spooky, convent-like building was dark and the area deserted. I would be leaving the next morning before breakfast was served, as well. I asked where I might get something to eat and drink. I was dreaming of a cold beer, several, to be truthful, but could tell by the pious nature of the surroundings that that wasn’t going to happen. The sweet sister/nun just smiled and shrugged. Then I said, “But I will need a bottle of water, right?” I was granted another pleasant shrug. I hadn’t planned ahead for being this isolated and was not prepared for there to be not so much as a roadside stand nearby. I was not Africa-savvy yet. Even if there had been a 7-Eleven next door, it would’ve been long closed and locked up, a la nighttime-mode, in Kenya. The sister/nun said something to the guard and he took off on an old bicycle and returned twenty minutes later with a sealed bottle of filtered water. For all I know, he went all the way back to the airport to get it. There seemed to be nothing, open or otherwise, within miles of the Flora Hostel. Then the weary sister/nun gave me a tired smile, patted my back, and toddled away. I wandered off alone to find my room and eventually located it in a dimly lit, narrow, empty hallway. When I unlocked the heavy door, inside I found two beds with mosquito nets, a table, sink, tattered towel and slab of used soap, and one tiny, barred window. Too exhausted to sleep, I dropped my pack and set off to find a shower. I stumbled upon three dank, communal cement stalls with only cold water before I finally discovered somebody’s private bathroom with hot water. After a heavenly, guilt-free wash, which I had paid for, I tried to find my way back to my room and realized that I was lost. I wandered around for at least an hour until I chanced upon it. In all that time, I didn’t see one other human being. I also didn’t turn off my room light or sleep one wink in the six hours until it was time to meet Ishmael again. This part of the newsletter should read: Spring for the extra shillings and stay at the Nairobi Holiday Inn. Seriously.]

WHAT TO BRING:

Pack as though you are willing to leave everything behind as a donation! [Intriguing, but true. I don’t touch this.] Travel pillow, converter, money belt, head flashlight, handheld flashlight [for when the foolish head light becomes too annoying], adapter (Kenya 210-240V), eye mask, earplugs, batteries, battery charger, candles, matches, power bars, lanyard for room key, insect repellent (73% DEET), water bottle (boiled water always available at the mission), ziplock bags, a large supply of disinfectant wipes and baby wipes for cleaning hands and face without water, waterless disinfectant hand soap, [Nan’s letter just said Purell, but I want to be fair to all brands.] and clothing for one week. Pack half of what you imagine you might need. Consider cotton, wrinkle-resistant items, hat, sandals, socks, underwear, walking shoes, shower flip-flops, sweatshirt or sweater, knee-length or longer skirts, and modest blouses for women (NO tank tops), [Originally this said “ankle-length” skirts, but I saw several Kenyan women, including Nan, in knee-length.] slacks or long pants (Kenyan men seldom wear shorts), and T-shirts or dress shirts for men. Rain poncho, umbrella, Swahili phrase book, travel clock, sunglasses, nail clippers, garbage bags, and a good supply of reading material/books, board games, playing cards, used laptops, sheets, blankets, and pillows. [There is so much downtime with so little to do that boredom is a serious and unexpected problem for visitors. This addition is purely for their sanity. The bedding used to be required but now the mission is able to provide it. I leave it in anyway because one can never have too many clean sheets in Africa.]

HOSPITAL:

Thermometers (all types), blood pressure cuffs, stethoscope, NON-EXPIRED medications (over-the-counter and prescription); games, toys, and dolls for the pediatric ward; baby blankets, bibs, etc. for maternity; infant clothing, and children’s DVDs (not too difficult for non-English speakers; cartoons).

SCHOOL:

Outdoors play equipment that can be easily and cheaply carried as baggage. Pens, crayons, markers, paper, etc. can be purchased cheaply here as a donation. Of course all donations are appreciated, but consider the cost of baggage fees against purchasing when you arrive. [I do bring good paper, colored pens, and crayons, and am able to provide them to the nursery-school children for the purpose of creating a book that I hope to get published for them. It is fortuitous that I bring these items, as I don’t see anything of their quality anywhere in Maseno or Kisumu.]

ORPHAN PROGRAM:

Soccer balls (deflated for shipping or travel) are always in demand. [I leave this in because it’s true but misleading. Ian hauls over a huge duffel filled largely with deflated soccer balls and he blows up a couple each Saturday, when we go to a parish for the mobile clinic and orphan feeding program. The adolescent boys are ecstatic and begin to play immediately. However, each time without fail, within a few minutes the balls get kicked into the brush, get punctured, and deflate. There is no way to keep them repaired. The kids shrug and revert to their standard practice of balling up and tying together the used plastic bags they’ve carried their bowls and spoons over in, and play on. Ian initially feels quite defeated by this.]

PERSONAL ITEMS:

Camera with extra memory, a laptop for storing photos, listening to music, and watching DVDs (there is no cable for Internet or e-mail in the visitors’ quarters), [this seems obvious but warrants mention] transistor radio, watch (cheap), TSA locks for luggage, journal, immunization card, passport, visa, small day bag, second pair of prescription glasses in a hard case, small lightweight shampoo, soap, lotion, laundry detergent, sunscreen, toothbrush and paste, two extra copies of all documents and cards—one should be left in the U.S. and one held by the mission. [When I arrive, I ask Nan if she wants a copy of my documents. She doesn’t.]

MEDICAL:

Benedryl, Imodium or Lomotil, Vaseline, Cipro, multivitamins, antimalarials, aspirin/Tylenol/ibuprofen, allergy meds, Band-aids, etc. More of these can be purchased in Maseno and Kisumu, but feminine hygiene products are hard to find. Be sure to check with your health provider for yellow fever and typhoid shots. Make sure you’re current on your tetanus and the hepatitis vaccines. It is strongly recommended that you register for additional emergency health coverage. A good place to begin is by purchasing an International SOS membership. Students and teachers get a discount. Health cards are checked as you leave Kenya so keep them in a safe place.

IF YOU WILL BE WORKING AT THE HOSPITAL:

Wrinkle-resistant and washable shirts, ties, and trousers for the men. Skirts and blouses (no jeans) for the women, [I am never clear on how much of the dress code is culturally driven or missionary-imposed. There are violators regularly and they seem to be well tolerated.] white coat, small notebook, stethoscope, BP Cuff, thermometer, box of gloves, Ophth Minus Panoptic (for examining eyes, and ears).

Electricity and water are quite valuable and on occasion, in short supply. For the duration of their stay, visitors are asked to take a minimum of one shower per day (less if possible). Please take water-conservation showers—where one turns on the shower to get wet, turns it off to soap up, and back on to rinse quickly. Also, use battery-operated sources of light when possible. Expect power outages intermittently due to extreme wind and rain. [I thought it good to be aware of this.]

ROOM AND BOARD:

St. Phillips Theological College charges $5 or 350 Kenya shillings per day for three meals and a bed. Room and board are basic, not up to Motel 6 standards! Each guest will be provided with a bed, bedding, pillow, towel, mosquito net, desk, bookshelf, and locking door. Groups may be required to share rooms. Meals are served in the dining hall with the seminary students and staff, as well as the property employees. Expect basic traditional Kenyan fare: Breakfast from 7-7:30 a.m. = chai (tea with milk and sugar), instant coffee, bread, and butter. [While I’m here, the visitors’ tray has jars of peanut butter, jelly, and a canister of powdered chocolate. I am told that these are new additions to the visitors’ menu and I sense that for a variety of reasons, they aren’t going to be around long.] Lunch from 1-1:30 = lentils, rice, beans, maize. Dinner from 6:30-7:00 p.m. = cabbage, kale, ugali, some meat, some fish, potatoes in season. There is little fat and limited protein in the Kenyan diet. Those visitors who will be physically active or who have fast metabolisms should plan on supplementing their diet with food from the stands at the local marketplace. [I think it only fair to prepare visitors for this. The dietary subject is a loaded one at the mission. Providing prospective guests with this additional information will hopefully make them less likely to complain about it to Nan. There is a great deal to say about the food but I’ll finish with the letter first.]

ON THE COMPOUND:

[There is no such section in the original letter. I add an itemized list of the buildings on-site, describing each of their functions and amenities. I also note that there are five security guards around-the-clock and a continuous fence encircling the entire property. I include that the mission has a working farm with cows, sheep, chickens, honeybees, and a cornfield. In conclusion, I state:] The property is a safe place, as is the small town of Maseno and the University of Maseno campus. But traveling is done at one’s own risk and NEVER advisable after dark. [Then I go on to include a description of and pertinent information about the immediate vicinity.] In the town of Maseno, there is a post office where Internet access is available [sometimes], and the Maseno University, also with Internet access. [Volunteers often get the theology college and the university confused. The university has nothing to do with the mission, although it should. I address this later, also. It is a proper university, by African standards of course, with a campus, classrooms, student housing, etc. Although campus life is eons-removed from the locals’ lives, Maseno U. is still eons in the opposite direction from American universities. Once the post-office Internet goes down, I make an almost-daily pilgrimage to the university to use its computer lab. It is a pleasant, forty-five-minute walk, shorter if coming from the hospital grounds. The gates have uniformed armed guards who never give me so much as a second look. David says my light skin is my free pass. The mingling students obviously don’t share that sentiment. They are all well-dressed, well-heeled, women-in-jeans, guys-in-shorts, with some attitude. The poor, scrappy locals in and around Maseno are nothing if not cordial to me, always. However, on campus I rarely get an enthusiastic nzuri (the standard Kenyan response for “It is fine”) to my eager hibari (the question “How is it?”). There are also small basic-necessity-type shops and local fruit and vegetable stands. [Several dukas-splintery, open lean-tos—are set up in the market square, at intersections, are lining the road, and across from the hospital grounds. From these shacks old and young women, often with babies and toddlers in tow, sell tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, cabbage, avocados, kale, oranges, pineapples, beans, rice, corn, etc., for shillings. Very little of this fresh produce ever makes it to the dining hall meals. I never know why. It is relatively inexpensive and readily available. Plus, purchasing it from the locals helps the women support their families. Whenever we visitors share our privately bought produce with the gang in the dining hall, they appear happy to have it.] Kisumu is a thirty-minute drive. There you can find shopping, restaurants, Internet cafés, supermarkets with “American” items, banks, ATMs, a secured money exchange, bus station, airport, etc. [All of these do technically exist here. Think third world.] Remember, most foreign ATM machines will only accept a four-digit pin. Also, secured Web sites are difficult to manage here, as is AOL, so it is best to set up a Yahoo! account before leaving home. Although it is good to speak basic Swahili as a courtesy both on and off the property, there will always be people conversant enough in English to help you.

Transportation around the area is primarily by local buses called matatus, that are minivans with seating for twelve to fourteen occupants. [But will often have twice that many crammed in and on top of them] They operate fairly ramdomly around Maseno and neighboring villages, and between Maseno and Kisumu. A one-way trip to Kisumu costs about the equivalent of one U.S. dollar. Boda-bodas, bicycles with peddlers and a padded backseat, are for hire for short distances for approximately the equivalent of thirty cents. [I have more to say about both of these forms of transportation but I’ll finish with the letter first.] But be prepared to do a great deal of walking on a daily basis! The compound has two vehicles that are for the exclusive use of the mission and the hospital. You should carry toilet paper, drinking water, and antiseptic wipes with you at all times. There will be a short guest orientation upon arrival on the property that will have tips for making your stay more productive and enjoyable. [I don’t know if these orientations ever happen. David is supposed to conduct them. Although they seem like a good idea at the time, the concept is born of my own immediate frustration and I soon realize that it is impractical.]

PROJECTS:

Unless you are coming as medical personnel for the hospital or have already discussed a project with the Hardisons, you may find yourself at loose ends when you arrive. Jet lag combined with culture shock can make acclimating difficult. The pace in Kenya is slow. This can be frustrating for folks used to being very busy and moving fast. There may be a list of suggested projects, but if you are coming with one in mind you should bring the necessary materials with you, as they may not be available locally. Be prepared to slow down, re-evaluate, and self-motivate. Clearly, the need here is huge and there is always a great deal that can be done. [I wrote this section more with a mind of giving Nan and Gerry disclaimers and getting malcontents off their backs, than toward orienting visitors. There is no way to adequately prepare anyone for what they’re getting themselves into.]

DONATIONS:

As always, if you would like to make monetary donations to the mission projects, please send them to All Souls’ Episcopal Church, 1475 Catalina Boulevard, San Diego, CA 92107. Checks should be made out to All Souls’ Episcopal Church with “Kenya Project” on the memo line and in the accompanying note. The needs of the Orphan Feeding program, the Educational Project, and the Mobile Health Clinic vary widely. Please e-mail Hardison@africaonline.co.ke for current needs. Otherwise, as previously stated, non-generic/non-expired medicine, school supplies, mosquito nets, NEW T-shirts, used clothing, shoes, and toys and games for children ages three to twelve (soccer, volley, and rugby nets and balls, balloons and inflatable beach balls) are always welcome. [I leave this last bit in but I disagree. Anything inflatable gets impaled on some shrub or piece of trash and is punctured within minutes. Then there is no way, and no will, to repair it.] Often, however, shipping and customs duties exceeds the value of the donation. So please try to carry donations in an extra suitcase. When you return to the U.S., it is hoped that you will fill that empty suitcase with items from the mission’s various micro-enterprises. If you would like to donate books, please ask for mailbags at your local post office. It is possible to send up to 66 pounds per bag, but please send multiple bags so the mailbags are manageable. The cost is $1 per pound. Mark the bags “Used Books” or “Donated Items,” and note a nominal value. No customs duty will be collected in Nairobi and the books will arrive in eight to ten months by sea.

MONEY:

Before departing the U.S. contact your bank and credit card company to inform them that you will be using your cards in Kenya. This is absolutely necessary due to the increase in identity theft. Contact them again upon your return. There is an ATM machine in Jomo Kenyatta International Airport where it might be prudent to test your card and your four-digit pin. Traveler’s checks are discouraged, as commissions are quite high. At least $100 U.S. in small bills is suggested, or figure on double the amount you think you’ll need.

COMMUNICATION:

Call your cell phone company to unblock your phone for international use (if you have a tri- or quad-band phone) and suspend your U.S. service to save money in your absence. If your phone cannot be used abroad, you can purchase one in the States that has the capability. [My personal phone could not be used overseas so I bought a used quad-band for fifty dollars before I left home. This makes life easier and I recommend it to anyone going abroad for any length of time. Not having to deal with impatient landline operators who speak a foreign language makes it worth it ten times over.] Purchase a SIM card for the phone and a calling card to load minutes. There is surprisingly good reception in the area and you will be able to recharge your phone in the dorm. For urgent calls only, you may purchase Safaricom cards everywhere in Maseno to load minutes onto one of the mission cell phones.

At the POSTA (post office) in Maseno, you can purchase stamps and aerogrammes (air letter), as well as cards to load minutes on from one of their computers. Internet services are available, though not always reliable, at both the post office and the Maseno University campus for about 1KSh per minute. Again, e-mail service is not available on the mission compound itself. The receipt and delivery of e-mail is slower than in the U.S., as is browsing the Internet. Please remember to bring e-mail addresses and telephone numbers for all of your travel and financial companies as well as family and friends. Postcards are available only in Kisumu, not in Maseno.

CONTACT:

The Hardisons’ phone number in the U.S. and in Kenya is given, as is the mailing address of St. Philip’s Theological College.

THE END

This forthcoming pamphlet is chock full of useful information. Still, for the first stretch and much longer for some, visitors are at best muddled. There is simply no way of being Kenya-ready without already being in Kenya—sometimes not even then.

The dining hall food is an illuminating cultural statement and warrants a more in-depth description. I can’t say I ever acquire much of a taste for ugali, the staple food of Kenya. Ugali, made from the abundant Kenyan maize that grows prolifically and is fairly drought-resistant, is a mixture of water and flour poured in giant vats over an open fire and stirred with a big stick until it thickens into a gooey dough. It is served in a steamy mound that is usually cut into slabs with a bowl by the server and then hand held in a glob by the diner who uses it to sop up and mush around the other food on his or her plate. Ugali is flavorless and has minimal nutritional value. But it is also inexpensive and filling. Another staple, chai, a mixture of weak tea, milk, and an overabundance of sugar, never grabs me either. It is served at each meal and at mid-morning and afternoon “tea times,” a pleasant residual from the days of proper British rule. I find much of the rest of the Kenyan fare to be quite good. Ugali complements every main course, often some greasy meat and a side of cooked cabbage, or sukuma wiki, cooked kale. I find that I like both of these vegetables so much that I decide not to dwell on the secret sauce that they are prepared in, which makes them taste so sweet. I only ever see one slimy, gallon-tin of something white and lardy-looking in the back that could serve as the oily cooking agent, but I don’t even want to know what it is. After awhile, I ignore most ingredients altogether. This is well-advised if I’m not planning on starving to death while I’m here.

Once, when catching a ride into Kisumu, I ask Nan if she wants me to pick up anything at the Nakumatt, Kenya’s answer to a supermarket. “Oh yes, can you get me one of the big bottles of Royco?” she says.

Once at the store, when I ask one of the stock boys where I might find the item, I’m directed to a row of big and little jars of an MSG-loaded tenderizer. Horrified, I don’t purchase it. When I get back to the mission, I report to Nan, “I must have heard you wrong. The stuff I saw called Royco is lousy with MSG! You couldn’t have meant that, right?” I ask hopefully but I can already see by her pinched face that she did mean that, that she is livid that I didn’t buy it, and that she does not want to have the discussion. We have it anyway.

“Pam, nothing in Maseno would be edible without it,” she sighs with that air of perseverant, exhausted fury that will come to personify missionary stoicism for me.

“But my jaw locks when I have MSG!” I alert her.

“Well, how’re you feeling, dear? It’s in positively everything you’re eating here,” she informs me with a wicked twinkle in her eye.

MSG in Africa? Big deal. On a scale of one to ten, a minus suck in terms of issues to be alarmed about. I once broach the subject of switching to brown versus white rice and get a similar exasperated response. And my jaw never does lock.

For lunch we have either gethari or “green grahams,” a local term. Gethari is a mixture of boiled beans and corn. Both ingredients are of animal-feed quality—big as marbles, roughly hulled, and chewy. Green grahams, which is the odd phrase the locals have for cooked lentils, is also rough and has little pebbles in it. Many visitors complain about both of these dishes but I quite enjoy them. There is usually a bowl of starchy white rice with a smattering of tiny black weevils peppering it to complement the meal as well. It is stick-to-your-ribs fare for obvious reasons. There truly is next-to-no fat in the Kenyan diet and nary a whole fruit or vegetable to be found in the dining hall. Consequently, most folks devour whatever will fill them up that they can keep down. On Friday nights the main course is tilapia. Although I haven’t eaten meat in almost forty years, as a result of my years at sea, I do justify an occasional attempt to eat fish. So I’m excited when I first learn about the tilapia. We are each served one small fish, about the size of a baby perch. It is whole and looks to have been boiled. My new friend and frequent dining companion, Alfous Wambani, a teacher in the theology college, instructs me how to eat it.

“Pom,”—this is what my name sounds like when the Kenyans say it—“you must use your fingers like so and pick around the bones to get all the meat.” His “all” amounts to little more than a mouthful. These are puny, bony critters, with scales and eyeballs to boot. “Then you must eat the brain, the very best part. Now you are a real Kenyan!” he announces proudly, watching me struggle to swallow, clearly pleased that his muzungu is an unflinching fish-brain eater.

“You know, this is a very popular fish in America,” I inform him, making lively dinner conversation, Kenyan to Kenyan. I go on to tell the story of how, as a young woman in New England, I had volunteered at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute in Massachusetts. At that time the institute was researching, among other things, the superior nutritional value of a fish discovered in Africa called tilapia. The scientists were excited about how it might help stem the tide of the present state of malnutrition and starvation on the Dark Continent. I’m not sure how much of my English Wambani understands, but he seems interested. “So where do these fish come from, anyway?” I inquire, blasé enough in between hacking and extracting tiny bones from my throat.

“The lake,” Wambani answers, sounding equally blasé.

“Uh huh. What lake?” I continue, nonplussed.

“Why, Lake Victoria!” he answers, like it’s obvious.

Lake Victoria. The Lake Victoria that we are not only warned never to swim in but the one in which the shore grass is even off-limits, so as not to contract the multitude of microbial diseases rampant there? The Lake Victoria that is portrayed to me as one giant septic tank of death? I just ate a fish, brains and all, from that lake? As soon as I’m able, worrying I might be in dire need of antivenom, I run over to the Big House and ask Dr. Gerry Hardison about the tilapia and the formidable list of the ghastly diseases attributed to contact with or ingestion of anything in or around Lake Victoria.

“They don’t think the fish carry the parasites,” he grunts dismissively.

They don’t think? Well, fine. That will be my only Friday night dinner eaten in the dining hall, my only tilapia eaten in Africa and my only chance to be a “real Kenyan,” I suppose.

After returning to the States, Marilyn, a longtime friend of the Hardisons and a frequent Maseno visitor, receives a progress report about the mission that she is kind enough to send to me, which includes a list of recent upgrades in the visitors’ facilities on the compound. I feel vindicated upon reading that the practice of visitors receiving special foods such as the peanut butter, jelly, and cocoa mix while eating in the dining hall with the locals, has been scrapped. That arrangement always made me uncomfortable. But the baby may have been thrown out with the bathwater. It is reported in the newsletter that a new and “fully equipped” Visitors’ Dining Hall, complete with “modern cooking appliances” and a “gourmet cook,” has been built on the compound. Personally, I liked eating with the locals and I liked eating what they ate. I didn’t however, like getting preferential treatment in front of them and I don’t think they were too keen on it either. Honestly, I think they were probably relieved to get their dining hall back to themselves. We never mixed all that cozily. I expect the visitors who now come to St. Philips are relieved to be eating better and are feeling guilt-free as well. Still, I feel that the separatism both implied and actualized by this new system is unfortunate and counterproductive. Although we volunteers who had the privilege of eating with the locals never went so far as to turn up our noses at the provided extras, we did choke a bit when confronted with the compromising realities of our elitist status.

Early on in my stay, Nan commissioned me to keep her apprised of the visitors’ stock of PB&J, cocoa, etc., so that she could replenish when she went shopping. When I dutifully reported to her that the items were diminishing, apparently more rapidly than she liked, she scoffed, “Well, the cooks are probably dipping into the jars back in the kitchen. If you want to have anything left, you’ll just have to start keeping the tray in your dorm and bring it with you each morning when you come in for breakfast.”

“I’m not doin’ that,” I asserted. If our show of superiority could be any more glaring, parading in and out with our special plate of nibbles ought to clinch it. Not surprisingly, no one volunteered for this job. We began to quietly re-stock the dwindling reserves ourselves, at least I did. Once, when Ian came early to help the cook make the ugali, simply because he was interested in the process, he strolled in and caught the old man shoving jelly into his mouth by the filthy handful. No one blamed the hungry cook. All the same, though, I for one made sure there were always plenty of reserves in general after that. As icky as this visual is, it was just something we had to expect and accept. Period.

With the exception of the time spent in the dorm, dining hall, and the Hardisons’ house, my most productive hours on the compound grounds are split between researching and writing The History of St. Philips document, a project Nan asks me to take on, and working in the nursery school. The history document project is informative and gratifying. My involvement with the preschoolers is captivating. Both will be described in great detail later. In fact, the bulk of the hours of my life in Kenya will be spent in some endeavor concerning the Maseno Project on the grounds of St. Philips Theological College, a place I often refer to in my writing as “the compound.” It should be noted that there is absolutely no connotation of a cult intended. It just becomes my private euphemism for the place.

With respect to the prophetic expression, “Wherever you go, there you are,” I come to Kenya and am most definitely muzungu—one seriously confused person wandering about. Nowhere is the allusion of having been misplaced more self-evident than when I find myself stumbling around the old compound. I finally get myself to Africa, exactly where I bowled over considerable emotional, financial, and political obstacles to be. And nothing, no one, not any single feature is in the least bit what I expected.

My overprotective big sister gets through to my cell phone sometime during my first week at St. Philips. Even in my customary pocket-less peasant blouse and long skirt, I refuse to be without my mobile, ever. I even take it into the shower with me. It is my lifeline. My tether to everything and everyone I have left so very far behind. I develop this neurotic compulsion to have it on my person at all times. My bulky, walkie-talkie-like, quad-band phone resides wedged down the front of my skin-tight sports bra. The first time it goes off, I’m in the dining hall and it scares the ugali out of me.

When my phone begins to vibrate, I think I might be having a seizure almost certainly induced by the dreaded tilapia from the previous night. In full frontal view of my mortified fellow volunteers and all the stunned seminary students and workers, I clutch my chest. Suddenly an obnoxious doorbell dong buzzes out of my boobs. I grope around in my shirt, frantic to dislodge the phone from my squished, sweat-slicked cleavage. With both fists shoved down my lingerie and my blouse stretched impiously low, grunting obscenely with the effort, I manage to scoop up the slippery orb. It jettisons airborne. I eject from my seat and snatch it on the fly. As I lurch my body down the bench, excusing myself in a slur of “pole, poles,” the Swahili expression of apology, I swear I catch each Kenyan blushing as I butt past. Once outside, pacing and ranting in the empty meadow, I become an information-overload, blathering idiot, prattling on theatrically and managing to slip into the conversation some modicum of cause for alarm. “This is so not what I expected!” I’m told I scream at my unsuspecting sister. I’m certain I’m laughing and using hyperbole for dramatic effect but even so, the next morning I get a call from my husband.

“Your sister phoned me in the middle of the night. She said, ‘Pami told me that it is not what she expected!’ I said, “Yeah…?” And she yelled at me, ‘So, Joe! Joe! What are we going to do?’ ”

Well of course there was nothing to be done and no need. There is a series of steps that are taken by individuals who throw themselves into foreign, alienating, and potentially dangerous experiences. The mechanisms for adaptation are typically the same: preparation, perseverance, and cognitive dissonance. That being said, on the infamous Dark Continent, the stakes could arguably be considered a smidge higher and the acclimation more imperative. Though I never seriously doubt that I will be fine, I still have my share of self-indulgent, bellyaching moments and my sister is the unwitting recipient of an early earful. But even these fragile flare-ups become part of my settling-in process. In my journal during my first week in Maseno, I write things like, “I miss normalcy, my normalcy, irreverent humor, honesty, honesty from the other muzungus, and from myself. Oh gawd, listen to me! I’m seriously going to have to have about a million disclaimers in this book just so I don’t come off looking like one enormous, insensitive clod.”

TIMELINE: Time it takes me to let go of those heavy disclaimer misgivings: I am solidly there by the time I leave Kenya.