Gone Fishin'

After a nice night in a land where everyone call me “Boss”, my ride arrives just a few hours late, due to some paperwork issues at the embassy. The wait gave me enough time to catch up on all the teams playing in the World Cup (being hosted in South Africa) and get addicted to a Zain (aka: Big Brother. They have billboards plastered everywhere and in smaller towns buildings are painted in the corporate colors. From what I can tell, they sell happiness.) sponsored college brain bowl type program. I shout out the answers from underneath my netting and nearly beat the Nairobi team singlehandedly. I feel brilliant.

The road to Lake Malawi cuts through the country and into the mountains. It’s a three-hour journey, so I get plenty of time to enjoy the spectacular scenery and share some stories. I have learned by now there is no need to tell a short story when trapped inside a vehicle for 2-5 hours. You can fill in every detail and nuance and still have many kilometers to go. When asked, “So tell me about you,” it is now totally acceptable to name all your friends from the sixth grade.

The only fast thing is our driver, a bit of a speed demon, and we are hitting 140/km, which none of us no what that really means. The countryside becomes a blur. Might be a good time for a nap and the etiquette are quite relaxed. Open mouth sleeping (aka: Grouper mouth) is fine, with just a bit of bug catching. Drooling is acceptable and rarely noticed since the heat evaporates the evidence nicely. Snoring is fine too. Just about anything goes when you share a ride in Africa.

Night is upon us as we finish off our ride along a dirt road towards the lake. The mountains surround us and hidden between is one of the world’s largest bodies of water. The sky is filled with stars and you can clearly see the Milky Way. The only sign of the lake tonight is the sound of waves along the beach. It is totally dark and a wonderful welcome to me. While this place is miles from home, I feel as though it is such a familiar place to me. Much like The Carters’ beach house on Dark Island, this place calls to me. Welcome back.

Of course more greetings are in order. “Dr. Danley, I presume?” I ask, when meeting my host. He and his team just returned from 11 days aboard a boat and are happy to be back at this spot too. I have somehow made it to my final working destination, only losing a few pants along the way. I am relieved to be here and am graciously shown my quarters – my private hut. I hear some warnings about securing my new home, as the latch is little challenge for the local animals. Turns out Pat spent the night in my very hut and wanted to sleep in one morning. While under the covers he felt a wild shaking of the bed, thinking a colleague was trying to wake him. He stayed tucked in bed, and when the shaking became too much to bear, he threw back the covers to discover a baboon hanging off the bed. This is a nice Africa wake-up call.

So I am now fully aware the latch is not enough. My hut is… a hut. A single light switch is near the door and a 12-watt bulb illuminates under the straw roof. There are three bunk beds and two pillows. The door is narrow. There is a large rock to be used as a deadbolt, I imagine, and the handle is missing all but one screw, making locking the door, much less just closing it, quite the chore. I spend about 15 minutes trying to secure myself for the night and then realize I may have to call for help if I need to get out of this hut. In the morning I hear some thuds outside and the squeals of monkeys just outside. I unpack a camera and spend the next 20 minutes working the skeleton key in the floppy lockset. I do get outside in time to see some monkeys wrestling atop a car before they run off to the beach.

The water is still lapping at the shore and the sun is slowly starting the day. While everyone last night was talking about getting up early, it seems I am the first one awake. I enjoy the quiet and see some locals taking in a morning bath in the lake. A few small boats paddle past and the mountains reaching out of the water appear prehistoric to me. In the water are more than 1,500 species of cichlid, all evolving over the past two million years or so. This morning feels like the dawn of time. (Historical note from Pat: The bible story of loaves and fishes? They served up the same fish that night as found in Lake Malawi. That’s pretty cool!)

The research teams (one group from Baylor, the other from the University of Tennessee) each make their way out of bed and onto the shore. After breakfast, we load up gear and head into the lake to explore a cove and gather/count some fish. This seems so natural to me, as I have spent much of my life getting up early and attempting to gather fish. I grew up on Hunter’s Lake, spent a few mornings at Dark Island, the Florida Keys and even tried fishing near Waco recently. (The only thing we lost on that trip was half a worm eaten by the youngest VanZee, we think…) But let’s go over my underwater photography resume’: NONE. So not only am I going to swim in this mystical place, but I might as well attempt to shoot photos too. My original plan of staying in the boat dissolved when I noticed our craft was less-than watertight. An offer of an underwater camera and I jumped in and enjoyed the water. The researchers had an advantage of tanks and complete gear while I was in my new swimsuit (from my shopping excursion in Nairobi) a borrowed mask, snorkel and fins. While they stayed under, observing the habits of the cichlid, counting them and catching some, I was flailing to stay afloat, not drop the camera and attempt an occasional dive. But my time in the water gave me a chance to see the variety of life swimming below me. The vibrant colors were amazing and I apologize for overusing this word with my visit here. The numbers of fish I am surrounded by made me think I was swimming in a tank at Pets Mart. I, like the cichlid, find a rock to call home while Pat works his net, grabbing unique samples as he goes. While this is the beginning of winter, the water is pleasant and we spend the morning swimming around the cove.

We take a break on the boat and chat about life and fish and anything else that comes to mind as we float in the sun, drying off after our swim. Before leaving, Pat conducts a small class discussion with his students in the lake. I love seeing a Baylor classroom out here in the world and in the water. They talk excitedly about their observations. They plan out their next course of action and thankfully for me that includes lunch.

We sit around a table and the cook brings us a meal that is filling enough for the morning’s workout, but not too much to keep us in for the day napping. The gear is strewn about the research center and this is every boy’s dream. While still civil, we talk with our mouths full, grab food as if this were our first/last meal and sit in wet shorts around the dinner table, barefoot, shirtless and sunburned. A few go out to the porch and catch bugs while others left at the table talk about speciation traits and I only keep up with about every 15th word. I feel stupid and wish I could shout out an answer to a Zain game show question right now, but I listen and try to absorb some of this knowledge floating by. I begin to learn about this work (and for a much better read: http://baylorinafrica.blogspot.com/) and am totally fascinated. We came to this great body of water to capture a tiny scale that fits on a few ridges of a fingerprint. I begin to ask relevant questions and start to catch on. Somehow I have traveled across the globe to learn more about something I thought I had a handle on. And I began to learn more about myself. It is extraordinary to come to such a place like Lake Malawi and begin to question our existence.

After lunch I get a tutorial on the burrowing habits of some fish with a discovery (for me) swim just outside our door. I see the array of sand built creations, looking like mortar shell marks in the bottom of the lake. For a fish just a few inches in length, Pat swims by one just his size and looks like he could liver there. I observe fish protecting their castles, and dive down to take a closer look. Pat is patient with me and describes in detail the asymmetrical design of the fortresses. We spend the afternoon swimming in the bay, floating past the world below.

As my new swim clothing dries on the line, we venture out for some Internet and bargaining with the locals, just down the dirt path. I find my time running short here and although Franci tries her best to add another day to my plans, I must leave in the morning. I catch the sunset under a thatched roof cabana while chatting on Skype and the new and old worlds collide for me.

Back at the research center we sit and enjoy a wonderful fish dinner (the sauce made by our self-taught cook was AMAZING!) that is one of the best in my life. The water from Lake Malawi is still on and in me now, and I must now say goodbye. Just before I begin my ritual hut door opening-locking hour-long ceremony, a student catches a bug outside and we admire this biting little creation, so unique and new to us all.

Early in the morning, as my driver waits, I take a last walk down to the water. The sand and shells crackle under my feet and I take a moment to say goodbye for now. From the heights of Pride Rock to the depths of this ancient water, I have seen and learned so much here. The joy of the people, the beauty of the land. I don’t know if I can take this all in. My pre-dawn escape takes me away from my comfortable place and the sun reveals the lake well below me now as we cut into the mountains. The morning smoke comes from small huts and the clouds begin to form. I seem so far away as I take one last look at the lake, but know it will always be within me.

I wondered why I write these words, sometimes. These are love letters to my sweet Franci and Carter. These are postcards to my friends so far away, wishing they were here with me. Each word I use to try and describe my surroundings just flow and I rarely understand their power. Yet I write to bring you all along and for my own peace of mind. It has been my honor to share these stories with you. I am amazed you have followed along as much as you are amazed to read I have made it through this journey. The things I have learned are much greater than those I could imagine. The reason I ventured out into the world is to find and discover there are many places that feel like home. I am so thankful for the past weeks and people I have crossed paths with.

I thought I was taking a trip, but it ended up this trip took me.





So here I am, clean and fresh, back in Nairobi, basically pants-less and done. So now I am preparing to take on a new role. For all the friends, new and old, that had met me at the variety of places I have landed, I now too will join their ranks as I create my sign of welcome. I will stand beyond the line of security and scan for the familiar faces I love. I will hold up my sign and shout out their names. And I will greet them with open arms and a loving heart.

And my blue Sharpie will scrawl on a plain piece of paper that served formerly as my itinerary: “Welcome to our next adventure!”

Last leg

After a nice flight, with a stop in Zambia, I am on my last leg of work. I meet Kasonde on the trip and we talk about Zambia. I should visit, he says, and see Victoria Falls. He talks about his schooling (a new graduate), his plans (NOT politics) and his hopes to visit the U.S. He does have one phrase for me when I reveal I will go on safari soon – “Good Pets Go Bad”. Not really sure what that might mean…

Relived to see my luggage make it, not like I have much clothing left. I did leave some laundry in Nairobi (and my driver tells me, “Hope they don’t take that too!”) so traveling light. Make it to town, found a place to stay for the night and ventured out into the world for a few hours. I could be mayor here, as everyone waves, smiles and says hello (or some form of that, I hope) as I pass. It looks like I am the only visitor here.

I am now in Malawi, underneath by blue mosquito netting, writing this entry. Last night’s dinner at the Ali Baba was great. I sat outside and enjoyed the sites while having Chicken Tandoori (suggested by the server) a pineapple Fanta (no Krest here) and some Nali Hot (“Africa’s hottest Peri-peri sauce) over rice. Street vendors pour out into the crowd and are hawking everything. Peanuts, oranges, pastries, tours, photos and clothing. They all come over to see if I want to buy anything. The only vendor that does not come by? The one selling pants.

Waiting and writing

I am safely tucked away in the corner, directly on the green linoleum squares and across from my gate and the Duty Free shop. We are all on the floor, some sleeping, some chatting with other travelers and most staring of into space, waiting. The stucco wall is leaving a deep impression on my back as I sit next to the remains of my breakfast (a banana peal and Granny Smith apple core, snatched from the hotel’s fruit basket left for me). It is early and I have already seen the preparation for today’s national independence celebration begins, with soldiers unloading from trucks to secure the local stadium where Baylor students played just a few days before. I have an invitation to the party, (given to me by Kibera Slum chief of police when we were welcomed/detained there last week) but will probably be best I fly out instead.

Somehow my travels have turned eventful and I need to catch up on the past few days. Since the flight Lilongwe has been delayed 30 minutes (Kenya translation – 25 minutes to three days) I want to clear my head of some stories, as I am sure many are ahead of me. Today I will not get an airport greeting. I have no idea where I will be staying and only hope to get in touch with my next Baylor group soon.




Accommodations provided by…

I am thankful for the places I have already seen and hopeful for the places I am about to visit. But some stays provided a bit more adventure than others. My stay in Aqua House 6 covered the basics; netting for the bed, sheet that may or may not have had bed bugs, absolutely no ventilation, tiny, sweaty, cramped. I have to admit is one of the only rooms I have ever stayed that got brighter when you turned off the light in the room. At night. And, like my other rooms I have had, it seems as if the local rooster is following my travels and books the window right outside my room. And while he does sound different that roosters I have heard before (not really a cock-a-doodle-doo, but more of a Blues Clue sound… sorry non-parents) this guy gets up WAYYYYYYY before the sun. And I already have lost sleep in Aqua House 6 wrestling with the tiny sink in the corner. During a late-night writing/sweating I decide to wash my hands. As I turn the handle on the solo faucet, it comes off in my hand, spraying water more like a fountain than a sink. I now have a nice water feature in my room and fear I will be charged more for such grandness. Problem is my laptop and cameras are near to the sink (in fairness, this room is so small, everything is near the sink) and I am trying to avoid flooding my room past midnight. There is no shut off under the sink so I take a few minutes to devise a plan to save as much as I can while keeping my thumb in this dike. I do have the room to reach a towel on the other side of the room and stop the flood while I pack up all my electronics. I then realize I am trapped in this hot box, there is no hotel staff around or awake at this hour and I have locked myself in my room. So I spend the next half hour attempting a repair of the faucet. I am finally able to get the handle back on, but fear it will shoot into the ceiling as I return to sleep. Of course I wake up with water all over the floor…

The hotel was quick to repair the sink for my next night. They just cut off the water line. No sink – no problem.

The shared bathroom makes for some interesting conversation as well. While in the shower a voice calls out for me. “Robbie? Do you have any duct tape?”

If I did, I would have used it all repairing my sink.


It’s the simple things I enjoy about my stay at Aqua House. One morning I spot chickens in the courtyard. That night we have chicken for dinner. The next morning I take a look around to see what’s for dinner that night.

My flip-flops (provided at all the rooms I have had so far) are perfect for this place. One green and one blue. I am thankful one is left, the other right.




Flight time

I got a fantastic send off from the pre-med group, with several getting up early to see me off and do a bit of shopping. Once I was dropped off at the airport, I notice a CLOSED sign at the Kenya Airways shed/hut. Found out my flight has been canceled and they have no planes going to Nairobi today, as they are all full. I heard the day before a similar thing happened to one of our students headed out to China, so I was not too surprised. I was surprised to find no other airline had flights available. And to get the feel of the Kisumu airport, imagine a fantastic place, with all new construction (as pictured on the billboard touting – COMING SOON – Airport Improvements) and take it all away except for a few sheds and a small building. By now more passengers are gathering and a bus is coming soon, we are told. Soon is such a relative term here. And while I would usually become a bit freaked out by being stranded here, I figured things would work out. Being a good Boy Scout I have devised a backup plan and have negotiated a taxi to Nairobi, just in case. There is nothing worse than hearing the sound of your flight taking off as you stand in the parking lot, but here I am and there it goes.

I do meet up with some other Americans; Colleen from Washington, D.C., Carol from Seattle and Robin and her new husband (with my apologies, as his name now escapes me) from San Francisco and just finished with their honeymoon. We band together, along with a silent Kenyan partner, to get a ride to Nairobi. A bus provided by the airline is packed full and their luggage is tied to the roof of the bus. We ask for and get the promise of another ride for our group, now joined by an angry, loud Kenyan – just for balance I imagine. If hearing my flight leaves wasn’t bad enough, now I see my bus leave, as I stand with some strangers and my luggage in the hot sun.

But soon we chat enough to realize we have the next six hours to spend together and all decide to make the best of it. Carol buys us water bottles for the journey. I offer up some snacks from my stash. The van for us arrives and we head off on what turns out to be a much more wonderful adventure than a 45-minute plane ride. We see tea plantations with workers in the field picking away at the leaves and filling their baskets. We try to figure out where (or even if) we are crossing the equator. We tell stories about our children (we all have boys) and we laugh together. We talk shop, share our list of famous friends and overall make the ride another fun adventure. We see baboons, zebras and stare into the Great Rift. At the only break stop along the way, a waiter wants to show me his fine collections of meat. I see, on the grill, brain, various internal organs and the only thing I spot that looks familiar is chicken. The van is still running, so no time to eat.

Our little band so enjoyed each other’s company we decided to get a real meal in Nairobi. We talked the van driver (with some help from a Kenyan friend) into letting us off at Westgate and we shared some American food and Internet. While we talked together for hours on the van, suddenly we find ourselves with laptops in front of us, silently typing away…

After waiting our rush hour traffic and saying our goodbyes, I head back to my hotel to repack and prepare for my trip to Lake Malawi. I am greeted by familiar faces at this familiar place, get my room and ask for my laundry and luggage I stored there.


The not-so-magical traveling pants


For those of you that know me, you will understand. For those new to Robbie’s World, here’s a short story. I always seem to forget to pack pants. I went to a job interview once…no pants. Go on vacation…no pants. Work assignments…no pants. I can pack a month’s worth of other things, always bring too many shirts but somehow I seem to forget to bring along pants.

This time I did NOT forget. I swear! I HAD pants when I got here.

So, and just hang in there with me for a moment, when I left Nairobi I got a smaller bag and left behind some laundry to be cleaned and extra clothes. At the same time all three Baylor groups left for safari. While I was still in Katito, the Baylor gang returned to head for home. Here’s where the fun begins.

Turns out the Baylor folks wanted to donate to the hotel staff anything they didn’t want to take back, including some luggage and clothing. A nice gesture, I am sure. Somehow my bag, with my laundry as well, got into that pile. So now I sit here, with the hotel manage truly ashamed and embarrassed, explaining the situation. I am left with an empty suitcase and my sport coat. (I then think I should be offended that no one wanted that too) It is late and I leave very early again in the morning. An offer is to take me shopping, just to get me through my Malawi trip.

There is nothing quite like being forced for clothes at the Nakumart. My driver was dragging me along through the isles while I picked back-to-school stuff. I am not a fan of shopping, so add this to being in Nairobi and well past my bedtime and all the fun is gone. And my driver just keeps asking, “You need pants?” I get the bare essentials to make it the next few days and promise to return for more clothes when I return to Nairobi. I am so tired I buy shoes a size too small and not exactly my taste in attire, (although I do look good in my “Proudly Kenyan” shirt, I think) but I am finally allowed to get back to the hotel to sleep.

In the morning I scan everyone, looking to see if they are wearing my stuff.

Pride Rock

Sitting here atop Pride Rock, I am embarrassed and ashamed I cannot capture the true beauty of this place with my camera. The sheer magnificence of it all is simply amazing. The nearby waterfall provides a steady backdrop sound, accompanied by birds and the leaves falling from the great tree that now protects me. The glint of tin roofs off in the distance look light stars in the night sky. The green surrounds me, other than this stone that keeps me clinging to earth. Off beyond the green are Lake Victoria and the mountain range of another side of this world. I can see moneys crossing the falls, tiny people looking up to this place. This is as close to God I have been in a very long time. Now silent, I am alone on the rock. Usually it is filled with children and our students, loudly chatting, quietly reading, braiding hair, taking pictures and enjoying each other’s company while they share this edge of our earth. Jutting out from just behind the clinic, there is nothing below for a great distance. You can feel the peace and sturdiness of this place. It is splendidly breathtaking and every good descriptive word I have ever learned has fallen from me here. This is something I so want to share with you all, but fall far short. Perhaps you can visit this place yourself and look out across this corner of the world. And find peace.

We all get away at some point to go to this place. Later in the day I hear our “dignitary” Joell tell about her experience on the rock. As she went there for some quiet time alone, a small boy approached her. After a little chatting she asked the boys’ name and he replied – Nelson Mandela. I guess if you had to share a rock overlooking Africa with someone, not a bad choice.

I did get to venture off the rock, and down a side path to take a closer look at the waterfall. Along with a small group of students taking a well-deserved break from clinic work, a dozen or so children soon joined us as well. They would race past us, then return to keep close as we made out way down and up over the rugged terrain. The children would jump across large gaps of rocks, or scamper up the fallen tree without the fear I had. At one point I took a break and felt a small hand on my back, picking away briars than had grabbed hold. It seemed any time I would stop to enjoy the scenery, or just catch my breath, some little one would be behind me picking away. It was a great climb up to see the muddy waters falling to the earth and we got to venture around this place until the call of duty had us return.

The crowd of people seeking help at the clinic begins to grow longer as the workday grows shorter. A rain storm approaches and washes off the plateau and valley as well. All the patients crowd into the church for shelter and care. In the corner, up front is Dr. Lisa Baker, known to the community as Mama Lisa. She is planted in a blue plastic chair as she has been for the past days, looking over each and every patient. She is surrounded with students, taking notes, fetching medicine and offering their help as well. They hang on her every softly spoken word. She sits at a doorway with her back to Pride Rock, so to have the breeze on her as she works though the day and litany of maladies. She is a fixture in her spot, as the faces of her helpers come and go. The sun is to her back as well, casting her students in much better light. She knows many locals have come for help, and are waiting; yet she spends precious, caring minutes with each and every one that is brought before her spot in the corner. She will often go without taking a break for lunch and while only less than 50 yards from the edge of Pride Rock, she has yet to find a moment in her days of working the clinic to enjoy the splendor of the view. I am truly stunned to discover that in the two years she has lead this clinic project she has never gotten a chance to look out and admire the world from the plateau. She is just focused on the hundreds of patients she sees while up here and has no time to look down.

The students take note and offer up similar comfort to all who come. It is amazing to see all of the caregivers at work without the aid of running water or electricity. They seem to understand the impact this visit has on this community, but are always stunned by the determination, generosity, graciousness and faithfulness of the people seeking their treatment. I think we all come to realize this is a special project and a special place.

Back at Pride Rock I have visited several times to share in the celebration of togetherness and the solitude it provides. I nearly lose my trademark blue flap hat here, but some children find it on the rock and return it to me promptly. I see students hugging children and sharing a final view over the world before the clinic is closed and we all must leave. I am not sad about leaving here, as I feel I can always return. I will always remember seeing the beauty of the valley at my feet. I will always have the security of the rock under me.

My final day on the plateau I hope to take one last visit to Pride Rock and perhaps a get a souvenir. My plan is to chip off a small part to bring back and keep forever. But the time slipped past. And although my pocket is empty, my heart will always hold on to this magic stone.

On our final drive down, back to earth, we take in the usual custom of the daily parade we host. Our collection of somewhat whiter than we are vans pass slowly downs the road to the valley, inching out way home. People, especially children, will call out with the sweetest sounding greeting the region offers. “HOWAREYOU?” (And to get the full effect, end the ‘you’ with a higher pitch and greater emphasis then the other words crammed together. It also helps to use a singsong approach and have your heart filled with wonderment and glee. Go up an octave if you can.) And the wave is a thing of beauty. Some like the simple single hand wave, but many go for the much-more-excited two-handed wave, like they just washed and are drying their hands in the air. And just to be fair, we don’t exactly blend in around here. Mzungu is the name we are given and if I ever forget I am a pasty white guy, I will just drive up here again to be reminded. We must really look like the circus coming through town. The look of surprise on their faces is always wonderful as we cruise past. And when I say cruise, I mean the following things typically pass us: walkers, bikes, each and every boda boda, running water and I once even spotted a butterfly go past us as we tried to go over some rocks. Most places I ride my dirt bikes aren’t this rugged. But tonight we are headed down this path and the children are running from their homes to give this parade a final salute. You can see the smiles coming at you while we creak along over another muddy patch or rocky pass. I thrust my hand out at every opportunity to say my goodbye to the wonderful people of the plateau. The sun is painting its final strokes of light across the canvas of green below and Lake Victoria is shimmering. Pride Rock hangs above us now, as it has for the millions of years before. And my parade moves on…

Walk this way

After making our way to the local school to help teach the daily lesson, I am approached by some school officials. One is insistent that I must leave immediately, as there is something very important I MUST photograph. She dispatches two young boys to be my guide for this trip and they lead me off into the woods. We walk past some goats. And some cattle. And some huts and simple homes. We stay on a path that winds from tiny community to tiny community. Our conversation is quite limited, as I ask some simple questions of them and they giggle and smile back at me. After about 15 minutes of walking they slow their pace and every once and awhile I am nearly leading, with no idea on where we are headed. We see people washing their clothes. We see all sorts of plant life. All sorts of terrain. Occasionally we spot children running out to see our three-person parade. We see lots of nothing. And still all they can muster is an occasional giggle. About one half hour into our journey I begin to ramp up my useless interrogation of the pair and now ask if they know where we are going and when we might arrive. Puzzled looks and silence, except for the sounds of our plodding footsteps through this jungle.

I began to replay the conversation at the school. Why would I be lead off and how could these two miss so much class time on my behalf. WHERE ARE WE GOING?!?!?

And then I heard the drums.

Off in the distance, but distinct and growing louder you could hear the steady beat from just beyond us. Each puddle we jumped over, every step we took brought us closer to the source of this sound. My tiny tour guides now began talking among themselves and laughing much more than before. For some reason one takes off his belt and hands it to the other, who now puts it to use. I have no earthly idea what is going on and begin to shoot photos just in case I must find my way back alone.

And then I hear the yelling.

Much closer now, I can hear a crowd of people are soon to be in our path and they are yelling. Chanting. Along with the drums, now clear to me. The rhythm is strong and steady, and I begin to have some wild thoughts I begin to blame on my malaria medicine. After walking for nearly an hour and finally on a road of sorts, where are they taking me… so close to lunchtime?

You might imagine that if I had seen a plume of smoke I would have just started running in the other direction. I sort of imagined I would come upon a site with hungry locals and one tasty tourist.

Instead, just beyond our last turn, drums beating fast and furious and loudly, shrill yells filling the air, we approached the tiny town. My guides are sent away when we approach a women looking to be in charge and I am to go to the main office for my instructions. There I find drummers drumming, dancers dancing and a small gathering lined along the roadway. At the office I am told that some dignitaries are coming to visit and I am needed to document this grand occasion. As I stand there still a bit confused (but relieved that I am now off the menu) I see a little girl holding a little pillow with some little scissors on it. And notice a woman stinging up a yellow ribbon across the bright blue door before me.

Yes, it now seems oh so clear. I walked for about an hour just to be called to the greatest event of this community. I was needed so urgently to photography their ribbon cutting.

Turns out the “dignitaries” were Dr. Able with the Baylor Pre-Med group and incoming visitor and prior traveling companion Joell, who I left behind just a day before in Nairobi. After she snipped the ribbon (and yes, I made a photo of it) we had some cold drinks offered to us (Fanta and Coke) and enjoyed the singing, dancing and joy of celebration for their safe arrival.

I just hope they can find someone else to shoot photos of their next party…

Thanks for listening!

Some might get the impression I am on vacation. (And I do enjoy how they call it holiday here. Sounds so very festive!) But if less than five hours of sleep daily, tours of slums, meeting street kids and orphans AND shooting the same number of photos as I would at a BIG football game (The sound you just heard was Matthew gasping, knowing he will eventually be stuck editing through all this…sorry) are your idea of a vacation, then I am on your vacation. Don’t get me wrong. I totally and completely understand I am working. This is not the first time I share an airport waiting room with three orange traffic cones, alone in my lime green plastic seat. Waiting. Alone. I love the chance to go where I go, see what I see and share. I just go a little crazy when someone (and I know it is only about one or two people) thinks I am just sitting in the garden, typing away between massages and trips to the sauna. Most all of you know this is hard work.

Just give it a few hours and once again I will be thrust into a crowd, somewhere. But before sunrise here, the traffic is manageable and the lines are short. And I like the moment of silent. Sometimes it is better than sleep.


And I appreciate all your love and support as I hit the halfway mark of my “working” journey. Because if I didn’t have this blog, I would be talking with the traffic cones…

The past few days have been every cliché I have every heard. Overwhelming. Life changing. Deeply moving.

So I will feel free to use some more. Our tour of the Kibera Slum was a total assault of my senses. You don’t quite realize you are standing on a heap of trash until you look down and see a collection of shoe soles, zippers, mud, human waste, waistbands from underwear and a litany of other items under your feet. The earth is about five feet below this I can only imagine. The smoke and smells overload your mind, wondering what each may be coming from. And the sights are too many. I blink more just for a tiny microsecond holiday away from this place I am now in.

Our host takes us to his home. The journey to his place takes us off the main path, behind the leaky water collection system and along a tiny stream of running “water” and on a trail I can imagine goats having a hard time negotiating. We duck under the hanging laundry and past the neighbors calling out at us. We walk past the small wooden door covered with bar locks and into the home, lit in red and green like Christmas. It looks more like a fallout or storm shelter, with just enough room to keep you safe during a passing threat. But for this family, this is home. Their furniture collection is very brief. Their only real comfort I see is a stereo, as music fills this tiny cavern. We see only one of homes and know there are few hundred thousand more, all crammed into this piece of land.

But we are welcomed and made to feel safe. Our hosts and all we see know we are just passing through, as do we. I hope we do this just to gather some mutual understanding, to learn more about each other. Perhaps it is not to feel bad about a place like this, but to feel better about ourselves. How truly blessed we are. And I am still and always will be taken back by their strength and faith in God, much stronger and living than mine. I cry out when I am wronged, or my life seems to take such a wild turn. They are living on a dollar a day and tell me about the love of God. I struggle on how to be peaceful, obedient, strong, loving, caring, but they provide our security and care while we continue through the slum. Past crying babies, people hurting and truly struggling, but least of all with their faith. But we get to leave here.

All of this is in passing, as I am now comfortable in my green chair, watching the sunrise and waiting in a now crowded room for our next flight. My recollection of my visit to Kibera is so intense I didn’t notice my current surroundings. Somehow, and I can’t quite get a grip on this, I am still there. Living daily to just get water, stay healthy, find a little to eat and be thankful for so much. To genuinely care for others.

I know my next bed will be comfortable. My driver will be pleasant and ask about me and my family. My next meal will be filling and delicious. My next adventure will begin and end quickly. And I will sleep little, complain too much and move on. And I hope to be thankful for this all.