Kenya, The Beginning ( Short Story)

I was twenty-one and leaving home for the first time to live outside of Ireland.   I had wanted to go to Africa since I was eight years old.  The Killyshandra nuns had come to our school way back then. They showed us their old sixteen millimeter reel of film on the school projector,about their sisters who were in African countries.1

I remember, all the children sat cross-legged on the floor of the concert hall. E ach class was lined up in rows of two, the length of the room.  This was a special treat for us, and we were fascinated, seeing the pictures of the nuns who went out to help the black babies.2

We were each supposed to bring a penny for the black babies to school, to put in the boxes in our classrooms every day.  I was never allowed to do this, since there were nine children in our family, so I stopped asking, and got slapped every day for not having one.  After seeing the film, however, I decided that when I grew up I would go there and give my time to help them instead.  That way I could make up for not contributing in a monetary way.3

So, when I was twenty-one I went to Africa.  I had applied to, and trained with, an organisation, called the Volunteer Missionary Movement, that sent people out there to work.   The orientation course lasted a month, and taught the volunteers what to expect and how to cope in certain situations that might arise there.  It was based in Mill Hill then, in London.   I had saved my four weeks holiday time from work to go and went there by coach from my home town.   Having been assessed and found suitable, they assigned me to Kenya.4

My parents did not like my decision, but I was an adult now, and had waited a long time to do this.  They could not stop me doing what was important to me in my life anymore.   They drove me to the airport in Dublin, resigned to the fact I was going anyway.    On the way, though, they took me to the Phoenix Park, and we had a picnic there and watched the deer for a while.   I had never been there before, although my parents had, and they reminisced as they walked through it.5

I remember I was kind of numb, not knowing what was in front of me after I left here.   This was my first big journey into service, and I wondered where God would lead me.6

When we got to the airport, and my flight was called, my mother disappeared, so only my father was there to see me off.   It was the first and only time I ever saw him cry.   He shook my hand, his body convulsed with great heaving sobs and his eyes and his nose running tears down his face.  He made no attempt to cover them.  I was shocked in that first split second, and then I remembered and recognised his fear.  I hadn't realised up until then, in the excitement of going, the toll this was taking on him.7

His brother and many cousins had left Ireland, and had never returned, and some part of him thought that this was the last time he would see me too.  My heart went out to him.  Impulsively I hugged him and rushed to reassure him.  I said " Dad it is only for two years, I'll be back before you know it".  He looked at me knowingly, and I almost faltered.8

My mother never reappeared, so I decided not to hang about and prolong his agony.  I turned, his tears still fresh on my shoulder, and left, and never looked back.   My flight was boarding, so I just stopped thinking, and joined the queue entering the plane.  I was in God's hands now.  He would do with me as He wished.9

I had never been on an aeroplane before, so I took in every sensation, so I would remember it.    I loved the feeling of my belly curling at take off, just as the plane lifted.   It was enjoyable and relaxing to be flying, and the view was wonderful.  Keeping myself in the present tense was survival.10

I spent two days in Mill Hill, in London, and a few days in Sussex with the head of the organisation I was flying out with, at her invitation.  I had a chance to relax there with Edwina, who had founded the V.M.M., together with her friend Maria, who was a Cuban refugee.   I realise now, that we had bonded when I was there previously for the orientation course.    We had recognised in each other that same dedication to service, or what some people call soul recognition. 11

They both saw me to the airport after a weekend spent in prayer, meditation and laughter.   I left amid hugs and promises by Edwina to visit when she came to check on her volunteers in Kenya a few months later.   I boarded the aeroplane, settled in, and went to sleep.    I knew the East African Airways flight would take at least eight hours, so I had decided the time would go more quickly if I slept.   I was awakened by the stewardess for meals, and about six hours into the flight, I looked out my window to see sparks and smoke coming from one of the engines.12

The captain announced that there had been a little trouble with the Boeing 747, but it was now under control.    We would just be a little later in getting in to Nairobi.   I remember thinking that if the plane crashed, at least my intentions were good for being on it.   I didn't get upset, or try to make my peace with God, because we knew each other intimately.   Instead I just settled back to sleep again.   Apparently while I slept, another engine was shut down for misbehaving, and we arrived in Nairobi airport after ten and a half hours in the air.13

I was expecting a heat blast getting off the plane, but since Ireland had a heatwave that summer of seventy-six , and 102 degrees Fahrenheit, the temperature wasn't much different to what it had been at home.   I made my way through the airport to collect my luggage, and went to meet the dutch priest who was picking me up.   It turned out that he couldn't make it, and had sent an American volunteer called Monica, to meet me instead.14

Monica was short with a slight build.   She had long mousy-brown fuzzy hair, tied haphazardly in a pony tail low on her neck.  She wore glasses, and was wearing a blue vest top, short flowery skirt, and flip-flop sandals.   Monica was in her early thirties, smiled a lot, was sharp witted, and talked non-stop.   I liked her immediately.15

We walked to the hotel where she had stayed the previous night, and I left my bags there for collection later.  She told me that we had six hours to wait before getting a sleeper train to Kisumu, and asked if I would like to see a little of Nairobi.  I said "yes", and she took me through Uhuru Park, where it was apparently only safe to walk through during the day.   We arrived at the Snake Park, and she showed me the snakes which were local to Raruowa where I was to live.   I was fascinated , but hoped I didn't encounter any  in the wild.  I even stood there to have a ten foot python hung around my neck for a few minutes. ( Monica said something about proving they were not cold and slimy).  Some introduction to Africa!16

We then went through the streets of Nairobi, walking and looking in the shop windows.  The craft work was exquisite.  I saw things I had only read about.  There were onyx tables and chess sets, ebony chairs and carvings.  Rows of elephants holding on to each other's tails, made of one ivory tusk, lined large windows.  Ethiopian silver, fine as spiders webs reclined on velvet lined boxes.  There were goatskin drums and crocodile shoes and bags and I wanted to touch everything, feel the beauty of it.  Silk dresses in colours I had never imagined lined the walls of other stores, and it was a delight just to look.  The rich must obviously be very rich in this country to afford things like this.17

We stopped for coffee in a restaurant with a tree growing out through it's roof.   Many people stopped there or left messages for each other around this tree.   It overlooked a street lined with bougainvillea right along it's centre, the leaves a myriad of colours.  There were fifty foot jacaranda trees too in full pale purple bloom and I thought they were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.  I loved the buzz and energy of Nairobi as a city, and hoped one day in the not too distant future to visit it again.18

About eight pm that evening we went to the train station and boarded for our overnight journey.   The train station was crowded, and I remember it had the strangest combination of smells.  I often recognise and remember places  as much by scent as by sight, so I tried to define this one.    It was, to my recollection, a mixture of what I can only describe as a very strong musk, almost primal, mixed with urine from people using the toilets in the station, mixed with charcoal roasted corn ears and groundnuts and a kind of sweet spice like cinnamon.  If I was taken there again, over twenty five years later, blind and deaf, I would recognise where I was straight away.19

The train journey was uneventful in that we ate in the dining car and slept in our Pullman compartment with the fold down beds.    In Kisumu the next morning I was introduced to Ocolle, of the Luo tribe.    He was the mission driver, and one of those ever-cheerful men.   Today he had a lot to do before taking us back so he arranged to meet us later.    While he did his errands Monica took me to the local cafe, called the Bodega, and I tasted freshly squeezed  passion fruit juice for the first time, and fell in love with both the place and the drink.20

She also introduced me to some people I would later meet regularly, and to the stores in Kisumu where I would need to go for supplies on my own.   I didn't bother too much with taking it all in, since I decided I would discover all that later on for myself when I had time to explore.21

After Ocolle had finished and he had the mission truck loaded with all that he came for, Monica and I joined him for the journey to what was to be my new home for the next two years.  We were taking the long route there because he had the truck, so we drove around  the south west corner of Lake Victoria.  On subsequent trips there, I was to take the boat which took two hours to cross the lake.  I drank in the landscape as we travelled along, marvelling at the banana trees and coconut and papaya palms and the fields of pineapples and maize.22

Ocolle put the radio on full blast as we drove along playing African songs.  I remember the music striking me as sounding like it was played on tin cans with elastic bands strung tightly across them.  The timing of the strange lyrics were almost a different tempo to the music, and the whole was a fast, multifaceted journey into tickling the soul.  I just loved it!  This music was full of joy.  There was not a slow sad note in it.23

On the way back too, I was introduced to African chai.  In a little thatched hut, sitting in the midst of similar little thatched huts, Ocolle told me that I was not far from the mission now and this what where I would buy bread, the kind that Europeans ate.  I entered this small building which  had only one room , that housed a counter, four tables and assorted chairs and long benches.   Monica ordered chai.    The chai, I was to learn, was made in a large pot where tea leaves, water, large quantities of sugar and lots of milk, together with some spices were all boiled up together for hours.24

It was then served in a glass, not a cup, and a second glass was provided for each of us. As I looked enquiring at Ocolle.  He demonstrated with his chai, pouring the very hot sticky liquid from a great height from glass to glass alternatively, to cool it.  The owner of the cafe was also the local baker, who only baked this kind of bread once a week, so I bought a loaf of what he called sweet bread, ( white yeast bread), and we set off again.25

The local baker lived , it turned out, seven miles from the mission compound along what was an ever-changing dirt track.  It was not really a road, more like a journey around the edges of what passed for fields.    They had no apparent boundaries, so it was hard to tell where one ended and the next began.  Ocolle explained that the route to the cafe changed according to what use was made of the land in whichever growing season.   I had the worst sense of direction ever, so I didn't find this reassuring, but I thought to myself "God hadn't let me down so far", so I didn't' worry about it.26

We arrived at the mission around six pm and I was told where my house was. I was introduced to my new boss, who was a priest called Fr. Kok.   He was dutch and had been there for nearly thirty years.  He welcomed me and asked me to his house around eight, for dinner, and  to meet the other people I would be working with, who lived on the compound.  He explained that some of the local teachers would be away, since the school was in it's fourth week of a six week break.27

Monica took me to my house and told me I would be sharing with another volunteer who was English.  She showed me to my room which contained very simple furniture and not too much of it.  I had a wardrobe behind the door, on old iron bed with a very thin mattress, and a chair.  A set of sheets and a bed cover were provided for me and sat on the bed.  She said she would arrange to get a mosquito net for me later before I settled in for the night.   She continued to talk but I was only half listening while she told me she would call in later to take me to the priests house.  I thanked her and decided to investigate the house further.28

The roof was Mbati ( corrugated tin), and sat flat, about a foot off the walls on exposed beams of wood.    The front door ended a foot short of the floor.   There were no windows as I knew windows, just spaces left in the walls with no glass or screening, only a wooden shutter that covered the space.   The floor was made of stones, rough-hewn and set in rows with dirt spaces in between, on which sat a table and two chairs.    Two softer chairs sat in the middle of the floor.  There was also a very crude simple bookcase.  The bathroom consisted of a toilet, a handbasin, and a pipe sticking out of the wall with no means that I could see of turning on water, below which there was a grid in the floor.29

I later learned that the pipe was to hold a bucket, on the bottom of which was soldered a piece of pipe with a simple tap on it, soldered again to a watering can rose.  This device, when filled with warm water and hung up, served as a shower.  You just stood in the middle of the floor and turned the tap on the bottom of the bucket, and water ran down over you and out of the grid in the floor.30

The kitchen was very simple too. There was a bottle of gas sitting beside a table, on which sat a little cooker with two rings on it.  Beside that was a cupboard with a wire mesh door on top and a solid door below.  It stood on legs that were standing on tin lids filled with paraffin.    When I enquired later I was told that this was to keep the ants out of the food.31

At seven pm the sun went down.  I had been used to the gradual setting of the sun in Ireland, where it took hours to go down in the sky, so I was not prepared in any way for what happened.  At ten minutes before seven the sun got low in the sky.  I stood just inside the door of the little house, having just freshened up, to watch the beautiful colours.  Then at seven pm precisely the world went quite inexplicably black.  It was like being made suddenly blind.   Nothing!  The absence of all light.32

I stood riveted to the spot for all of a minute wondering what had happened, then I remembered Monica telling me about candles and matches on the table.  I lit the candle, and for the first time it hit me where I was..........    This was Africa!33