III. MUHORONI

Friday, April 2

According to Luo tradition, we waited until night before leaving for Muhoroni, which would be the final resting place of the late Mzee. As twilight approached I walked through the large crowd in front of Maurice's. Everyone spoke quietly with one another, bringing a serenity and dignity to this meeting that I had never encountered in a comparable gathering of Americans. Henry was staying behind to watch the apartment. Before we left I gave him some money for food in the coming days, since he didn't have a job and everybody else would be gone. The bus was filled to capacity with relatives. I would follow behind in the rental car with Selpha, Monica, and the kids. Muhoroni was about 450 miles Northwest from Nairobi, in the direction of Lake Victoria. The road to Muhoroni goes through the rift valley and Lake Nakuru National Park. As we got underway, Selpha kept telling me how it was so unfortunate we were driving at night because I wouldn't be able to see the landscape and the animals. The night air was cold as we left Nairobi behind, climbing up toward Limuru. The bus had about a fifteen minute head start and was far ahead of us. We caught up with the bus after about an hour of driving. It had pulled over. Puzzled, we stopped and Maurice jumped out of the bus. I came out to meet him, and he explained they had wanted us to catch up before continuing.

After reaching Limuru we began to descend into the basin of the rift valley. At about 11:30 we had reached Nakuru, where we stopped at a small tavern for coffee. The tavern, called the Green Line, was sort of the Kenyan equivalent of those small truck stops you find along the freeways in the American southwest. It was placed on the edge of town and seemed to be a favorite stop for Kenyan truckers. Outside, I greeted a few of the people who stepped off the bus. There was a missionary among them, by the name of Festus. He had recently returned to Nairobi and was eager to tell me all about his work in Northern Kenya at Lake Turkana. Festus, was an exuberant, inexhaustible talker. A small group formed around us as we got on the subject of linguistics. He had an amazing wealth of information about the Turkana and went on at length until Selpha asked me to join her for coffee with John and her cousin Sam, who had chartered the bus. We didn't stay long because we still had much farther to go that night. In the car, back on the road to Muhoroni, I couldn't sleep and spent my time looking at the stars. The star patterns were all noticeably different and unfamiliar. We were driving straight toward a particular star cluster that was shaped like a four-pointed diamond. It was new to me but I still knew what it was. "Is that the Southern Cross?" I asked the driver. "Yes! That's the Southern Cross", he replied. The song of the same name by Crosby, Stills, and Nash was summoned to my mind and I heard it faintly within the sounds of the road and the wind. Traveling deep within the night, I felt exalted by this new view of the stars.

We arrived at the Odero farm at about 4:30 am while the bus split from us to go to Nykach. It would arrive in Muhoroni on the afternoon of the next day, carrying even more passengers. We drove up a bumpy dirt road toward the house and were greeted by Monica's brother Joshua, carrying a kerosene lantern. The farm workers began to set up George's old simba for us to use, since by tradition we couldn't go into the family house. From the distance an eerie sound caught my attention. A group of professional mourners were coming up across the lawn, wailing loudly. They entered the main house and seemed to be moving from room to room expressing their grief. And they left quickly their voices fading in the night. Despite the early hour and approaching day there was live traditional music that night outside in front of the house under the light of a single gas lantern.

We slept for only a few hours until the light and heat of day finally awoke us. Monica told me that the neighbors had prepared a bath for me. This is a traditional way to welcome a traveler who has just arrived. By tradition we were not allowed to enter my mother-in-law's house until after the burial. Thus we did not have access to the bathroom. However, we were offered use of these facilities at the neighbors house. I was curious what form this traditional bath would take and imagined, in a somewhat naive way that there would be some of ceremony. Upon walking across the narrow dirt road into the neighbors yard, I saw that this bath would be more conventional than my first expectations. A corrugated metal outhouse stood alone in the distance facing the farmyard. Behind it was a newly plowed field. A large plastic wash basin was filled with warm water and placed by the door. The morning sun was enough to illuminate the interior of the shower stall just from the cracks in the door. The water and the outdoor air were pleasant and refreshing. I repeatedly poured water over my head, enjoying the sensation. But the sun was heating the metal roof and walls so rapidly that I hastened to finish. I dressed and opened the door to put on my thongs. They were gone! Reluctantly, I had to walk barefoot through the farmyard, past the cows and cow dung, and finally back across the road. I later learned you keep your thongs on while bathing. Mine were taken by mistake when my sister-in-law thought they were hers.

Later the workers erected a shower stall by some trees behind our quarters. It had a metal floor and matted bamboo walls. The water ran into a ditch by the road. This was a most pleasant location for bathing because it was shaded yet was open to the sky.

Saturday, April 3

Burial Day

The morning of the funeral I was walking down toward the main road when I happened to meet one of the neighbors, a man in his early fourties who introduced himself as Oscar Aran. He was pleasant, but toughened by years of subsistence farming. After the preliminary greetings he asked me point blank "do you like me"? The question was refreshingly direct. I gave him a direct response "Yes, I do like you". My answer pleased him enough that he invited me across the road to visit his house. He had many papaya trees on his farm. We ate their fruit inside his mom's house while he joked about how he was going to thrash me and beat me. Meanwhile everyone else was getting ready for the funeral and wondering about my whereabouts.

The funeral was the longest church-related event I have ever witnessed. About 1,000 people were assembled -- relatives from Nykatch (Dr. Odero's home town), Muhoroni, and Nairobi. Most were seated in the front yard of the house. The inescapable sun was directly above. Unfortunately my camcorder batteries were discharged again so I was unable to videotape the event. The pastor had brought a small PA system which was powered by several car batteries. The service commenced with the words of the minister, followed by the lengthy testimonies of the immediate family. Each of Dr. Odero's children spoke in turn. Then Monica softly told me that the pastor wanted me to give a testimony. When Joshua finished. The pastors eyes turned toward me. I stood up and walked to the microphone. There was silence as the crowd looked at me. Only the gentle sound of a slight breeze was audible. One of the pastor's associates came and stood beside me to act as an interpreter. I didn't really know what to say to this assembly, or even if my words would really be relevant, having come here from so far away. But I felt what I could tell them was how I saw my relationship to Monica's family and what that means for the future.

"I knew the late Mzee through our correspondence and by our phone calls." The interpreter repeated my words in Luo, so I paced myself by pausing after each sentence. "I remember his exuberant voice as we talked over the phone just before he passed away. The many people here today who have gathered in his memory are a testament to his service to the community. I will teach my children about their grandfather and his life. And I am grateful we have had the opportunity to share with you on this sorrowful occasion."

After I sat down, each of the three wives gave their testimonies. The last to speak was Monica's mother Joyce, who had been married the longest to the late Mzee. Monica stood next to her while she spoke, holding a blue and white umbrella to shield her from the sun. The lady spoke for over half an hour. Monica never waivered and held the umbrella steady. I wish I had a better understanding of Luo because, judging from the reaction of the audience, Monica's mother apparently said some rather things.

Later in the day after the service I went back to George's simba to relax. Maurice was there alone. Having just buried his dad was too much for him. He suddenly fell to the floor, crying. "Dad, why did you have to die? What's going to happen to me now? What's going to happen to me?" His weeping brought a few curious relatives to the doorway. We watched in silence as he lay writhing in grief. I wanted to do something to help him -- kneel down and embrace him. I don't know what kept me standing there. Perhaps it was fear that my intervention would be unwelcome or so unexpected it might make him worse. Finally, his cousin Susan sat down beside him and calmed him.

The grave was on the west side of the house, behind a small garden. Digging it had been difficult. Not only because Luo tradition required that the grave be dug at night, but also because the diggers hit some large rocks just below the topsoil that slowed them down. The man in charge of the digging had worked on the Odero's farm for many years. He had asked me to come view his progress one morning a day or so before the funeral. The grave was actually a small burial chamber which he had lined with stone blocks. He explained how the headstone would look, wide and set almost flat at a shallow angle with a cross engraved in the center. I was almost ready to leave when he asked me whether I could provide some "moral support" for him. Selpha had told me I shouldn't give money to anybody here, but it was difficult in this case because he was working so hard to make the grave ready. So I gave him 100 shillings (about $2.00). This proved to be a mistake because, as I later learned, he had a fondness for drink. He disappeared for two days, disrupting progress on the grave but, ultimately, not on the burial.

By evening Maurice had recovered his emotional continence. He and a few of his friends decided to go to the town center. Maurice asked me if I wanted to accompany them, a short trip of only about 11.3 km. The driver took us into Muhoroni where we stopped at a small, sparsely furnished bar. We sat down on rattan chairs which lined the walls. At the opposite end was an old jukebox playing "Roger Milla", a hit song by the Zairian artist, Pepe Kalle. A tall, almost middle-aged waitress took our orders. Except for Maurice, everyone drank Tusker and Pilsner beers. Maurice ordered rum. The beer was served at room temperature (warm). We sat talking and drinking for a while. Soon everybody was chain-smoking except for me. They lit the cigarettes with wooden matches and tossed the burnt-out matchsticks on the bare concrete floor. Management didn't care. The back of the building opened into an unlit patio where the patrons would walk out to piss. The bartender sat inside a small, wire mesh cage. A man wandered in selling peanuts. I bought some for 5 shillings. He carefully folded a scrap of newspaper into the shape of a small tray, in which he placed the roasted peanuts. I was impressed by his attention to detail. Later we decided to walk down the street to a dance club. The driver didn't want to come with us, having hit if off rather well with the waitress. So I asked him to pick us up there at about 11:00 pm. We walked to the Boluma Building, a long one story green building across from the only gas station for miles around. The gas station had a large sign which read "Kobil" in dark blue letters, save for the K, which was red. Maurice had explained that these used to be Mobil gas stations, until President Moi bought them out and changed the M to a K (for Kenya).

The five of us walked to the Boluma Bar and got in line at the doorway. A large group of students were behind us who had just arrived from Maseno University in Kisumu. People were crammed together ahead of us in a narrow corridor, waiting to pay cover. As we were just getting to the doorway, one of the students jumped from the crowd and punched James on the shoulder. There was a momentary stand-off. Although we were all a little drunk, it was apparent we were badly outnumbered. Maurice asked James to be cool. James didn't move but finally warned his assailant against any further action. We moved through the corridor, past a stage, and out into an enclosed patio. There was virtually no lighting, but with the full moon I could see a set of round tables in the back. The incident at the entrance had put us on guard. And the large group of boisterous students all pushing to gain entry gave a volatile and unpredictable ambiance to the scene. Close to the stage was an open window where people were crowding around to buy drinks. As we moved close to buy some beers, the same guy who hit James stepped forward and hit him across the face. This was certainly the beginning of a brawl. But James unleashed a verbal assault only. Strangely, the offending student was silent. He stared back at James in silence. With our beers in hand, we headed to a back table away from the crowd. I thought it appropriate to praise James for his restraint in what was obviously a losing situation. The others joined in to try and repair his damaged ego.

In a few minutes music started and the two incidents faded from our immediate attention. A young lady came to our table and all but pulled me to the dance floor. The sweet sounds of Zairian music -- pulsating waves of melody -- resonated through the atmosphere. I introduced myself and she told me her name was Harriet. Then she smiled and drew me close as we danced. She said "I think I need to have a white man." This statement, in its honesty and directness caused a radical shift that moment in how I viewed her and, even more, in how I viewed myself. I think up to this point in my associations with Africans I regarded my skin color as something to be overlooked. I thought I was making friends with blacks in spite of being white. Now I began to realize that at least in some cases I was making friends with blacks exactly because I was white. And Harriet clung to me, caressing me. Her touch made me want to get alone with her somewhere and give her exactly what she wanted. But the logistics of trying this carried too much risk. So instead we danced. The full moon was partially hidden behind one of the few remaining cumulus clouds scattered across the sky. Her body felt firm and energetic. She reached up and playfully pulled my hair with both her hands. Even her perspiration was sweet and natural, no perfume. When the song changed we sat down.

Suddenly the music stopped. Silence. Then to everyone's amazement the M.P. for the Muhoroni constituency got up on stage and began giving a speech! The M.P., Mr. Aloo Ogeka, had spoke at the funeral ceremony earlier that day. For a few seconds his audience maintained a polite silence. But soon people started shouting back insults. What could he expect, addressing a crowd at a dance club late Saturday night? It was outrageous! People shouted and laughed at him or ignored the poor man. He continued undaunted for about ten minutes. When he finished the music came back on and people started dancing again. James came up to me. From under his jacket he pulled a long leather whip. "You see this? It's a hippo tail. This is what I will use if that guy tries anything again. The tough leather looked capable of slicing through flesh if used properly. But we didn't talk long because I wanted to dance more with Harriet. At the end on the next dance a photographer came by and Harriet asked me to take a picture with her. I saw no harm, but Maurice interjected, "No pictures." I accepted his judgment but did not quite understand his reasoning. She asked me for a beer and I bought her one. But I had enough alcohol for the evening and drank a coke instead. As we danced, I began to become more apprehensive about the total unpredictability of events and my attention shifted from Harriet to the other people surrounding us. I worried about the unexpected, the unpredictable, which seemed to have come to this party in full force. Suddenly, I felt a tap at my shoulder. It was John, the driver, now back to take us home. He was dancing next to me with a broad smile. We regrouped at the table. Harriet came next to me. I told her I had to go. "I wish you every happiness." I said. "And I you." she replied. It was a sad good-bye.

We arrived late back at the farm. A large group of mourners had settled down to sleep outside in front of the house. They were barely visible in the shadows cast by single gas lantern. I went to George's simba, where my family was sleeping to get ready for bed. Outside, the young people were still playing music on an old tape player. The sound was highly distorted as if the amplifier were being overdriven. But it was still quite listenable. I lay in the small bed next to Monica. I wanted to sleep and I wished somebody would stop the music. But nobody turned it off. It was loud. They were playing Bob Marley and the Wailers. As I listened the music joined with the insect sounds of the cool night, giving it a magical, quality -- almost as if it were a living expression of nature. The Wailers music reached into my soul and I listened until dawn in the dark of the simba. The lyrics of "Is This Love" reflected back the recent experiences of my journey. I heard "We'll share the shelter of my single bed . . ." as I lay with my wife in that simple dwelling. And "Jah provide the bread . . ." was about the food from this farm we ate, which was natural and unprocessed. Lying in the dark Simba in this dream-like state, I felt as if I had returned home from a long journey and found myself wrapped in the security of a forgotten past.

Sunday, April 4

Bathing at the River

Maurice told me he was going to the river to bathe. He asked me if I would like to come along. He phrased the question in a manner that was indirect enough so I didn't quite get the message he was inviting me to bathe with him. I told him "sure!" I knew of a shallow stream toward the entrance to the property, but it wasn't deep enough for a proper bath. So I was curious about where exactly he would go. We walked down to the main road and then headed up a narrow drive that leads to the next farm. After about 100 yards, we cut across a grove of trees to a path that leads down to a wide, gently coursing brook. We sat on some large rocks, next to the high green grass which grew so abundantly all around. A few birds chirped nearby. Maurice told me this was where he used to bathe when he was growing up. The air was slightly cooler here and we enjoyed the shade. A sudden sharp sound came from somewhere behind us in the trees. It could have been anything but I made the suggestion that it was a bird. In a minute I was proved wrong. A smiling young man emerged from the trees. He was tall, with a short beard, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Maurice smiled and greeted his friend, Tito. Tito had recently inherited land nearby from his parents, which he was developing to start a dairy farm. Tito and I talked while Maurice climbed down the steep grade to the water. While Maurice undressed, Tito explained he was an accountant in Nairobi until last year when his father died. He inherited the family farm along with his two brothers. His brothers elected to remain in Nairobi, so Tito had the farm to himself. By now Maurice was half-hidden behind a canopy of trees and grass, busy splashing water on himself. In a few minutes he was finished and climbed back up to us, relaxed and refreshed.

We were soon joined by another young farmer, Festus. The four of us walked over to Tito's to take some refreshment. Tito wanted me to see his bull, a huge beast standing alone in a small field that was cordoned off by barbed wire. I had my camera along and Tito requested that I take a picture of his bull. He cleared the barbed wire fence and walked out into the field. The bulls' horns were not very long, but I still felt apprehensive about getting close to it. The bull watched me as I approached and positioned myself to take the picture. My camera had a long lens and I wondered as I focused whether the bull might feel my pointing this strange object at him to be a challenge. Tito explained that this bull was a good financial asset because he could rent it out for stud service. I didn't trust this bull. I snapped a quick picture and hastily retreated to the other side of the barbed wire fence.

We continued on to the main farm house. It followed a traditional Luo architectural design with clay walls and a thatched roof. Tito sat behind his large desk, next to a bookshelf filled with economics texts and other books and materials from his college years. We enjoyed afternoon tea while he explained his situation. "Bruce, many of us here are caught in a kind of trap. You see, the natural resources are abundant but we are lacking the capital for development. As it is, many of us live at a subsistence level. In my own case, if I had about $1,000 I could develop a dairy farm that would be very profitable." He took us outside to see a building he was constructing to house his dairy cattle. So far, Tito had erected a series of roughly cut wooden pillars -- little more than trees with their bark and branches removed. They were placed in rows, without the benefit of concrete for a foundation. The pillars were there to support the walls and a corrugated metal roof that Tito would add when he got more money. Again, Tito compared his situation to a trap that enabled him to survive, but never flourish. While Tito was at the mercy of land and nature, I couldn't help but see a parallel in the United States, where so many were in their own traps, bounded by the state of the economy. Life in the United States is totally dependent upon money, while here in the countryside the economy of nature bears a much more significant impact on whether people live well or go hungry.

Monday, April 5

Monica and Selpha were in Muhoroni to clear out their dad's clinic. I had remained at the farm without much to do. It had been raining lightly that evening but now it stopped. Maurice asked me to come outside while he smoked. We walked into the darkness, and as out eyes adjusted, we made our way down to a clearing where the outline of the trees was visible against the cloudy night sky. The air was so fresh I could taste the oxygen. "Maurice, thanks for taking me to visit Tito. I hope he is successful in starting his dairy farm." "Sure Bruce", he replied. "You know, you have seen much. You have gone deep." This statement came as a surprise. "In fact", Maurice continued, "you really baffle people here because you are so open". Here was an issue I often felt content to ignore. Perhaps I was an enigma -- this strange white person, struggling to speak Swahili and Luo. But until now I hadn't given it a single thought. I felt it was necessary to explain myself to Maurice. I was simply trying to assist my wife and her family in their moment of need. But before I could reply, I heard Monica calling me. We turned and walked back toward the simba.

Tuesday, April 6

Monica's cousin was the registrar at Maseno University College, an expansive educational institution nearby the city of Kisumu. We gave the driver the day off and drove with Selpha to meet him that afternoon. He was delighted to have visitors and gave us a tour of the campus. Maseno University was based on an old set of buildings once occupied by missionaries and their families in the early part of the 20th century. After driving through the campus, we took a detour and drove North to the equator. As we approached the marker of the equator I began to feel a subtle but definite sense of vertigo, like having just stepped off an amusement park ride. The equator was marked by a concrete pylon about five feet high. A large yellow ball was at the top to symbolize the Earth. The word "EQUATOR" was printed on a broad red line which ran across the center of the ball. As soon as we got there of course, the kids had to climb up to the ball. I still felt strange. When we got back in the car I asked if anybody felt dizzy. Suprisingly, there was almost a unanimous agreement that something about the equator made everybody feel a little strange. I had heard about the choriolis effect before, in which water goes straight down the drain at the equator instead of swirling clockwise or counterclockwise, as it does in the northern and southern hemispheres, respectively. Perhaps, I thought, something unusual is happening to the fluid currents in my vestibular organs to alter my sense of balance. When we returned to the campus we all had lunch at a campus guest house. Our meal was traditional Luo food which I had become used to eating almost daily. We had tilapia, sukuma, and ugali. That is, fish (from Lake Victoria), cooked green vegetables, and a doughy form of sorghum that you shape with your fingers into a form to grab the meat and vegetables.

We returned to Kisumu and visited the Municipal Fish Market, Monica and Selpha bought some dry Tilapia and to take home with them. We then made a stop for drinks at the Sunset Hotel by Lake Victoria. I wanted to take pictures of Lake Victoria but it was hard to find a good view. Maurice finally bribed a hotel worker to let us up onto the roof above the tenth floor. Lake Victoria looked more like an ocean than a lake. And what we saw was really only a small harbor. It was mid-afternoon and the sun was reflected from the glistening water in a thousand hues of blue and white. There was a brisk wind that slowed me down but I still got some interesting shots. We took pictures of the lake, each other, and finally we shot some videos -- including an attempted interview with the hotel worker, who only smiled silently no matter what question I asked him.

Lake Victoria was an extraordinary sight but it was quite inaccessible from the Hotel. Maurice mentioned that he knew the perfect place where we could get to the water's edge: Dunga, a small suburb of Kisumu. We finished our drinks and took off for Dunga. The winding road took us into a secluded area and past a number of beautiful homes, some belonging to past members of the Kenyan parliament. We came close to the lake again and a private club came into view. We drove into the parking lot but a guard approached and asked if we were members. Monica openly wished Maurice has told him we were as we turned around and headed out the gate. Finally, toward evening the road ended at a restaurant by the edge of the lake. It looked as though it was an enduring local favorite and perhaps an unexpected delight for tourists who preferred less traversed paths. The words "Dunga Refreshment" were written on a sign at the entrance. A group of kids crowded around and offered to wash our dusty car. While Maurice was talking to them Monica and I followed our kids down to the water. This was it! Seth was standing on a large smooth rock in the water. I told him he was standing on the back of a hippo and he apparently believed me, scrambling back to land. I laughed with Monica and felt the water.

It was warm. A perfect temperature for swimming, as some kids nearby were doing. There were also people sailing canoes. It was becoming a perfect balmy evening. The tables at Dunga Refreshment were all outdoors next to the water. There was music of an East African band playing on the sound system. I was already familiar with the unmistakable and beautiful guitar melodies of East Africa. But there was something more here as it played to us by the peaceful lake. It was as if the music belonged here, or seemed to share some indefinite component that was integral to this environment. We talked and relaxed at the table. The last of the day's sunlight, now orange and red, faded behind dark clouds at the horizon over Uganda. It was nightfall at Dunga.

Wednesday April 7

Early in the morning at about 4:00 am I was awakened by singing. The sound was beautiful, eerie, and seemed to sweep down from the hills above the farm in a procession of distant echoes. I wanted to record it but the sound was too faint for the mike on my old camcorder. Thinking there would probably not be another chance for me to hear these mysterious songs, I lay quietly in the dark listening for a long time before falling asleep again. When I asked Maurice about the mysterious singing that morning, he explained that it was from a farmer plowing his field. The farmers begin work well before dawn so they can finish early, when the sun isn't too high.

That afternoon, Joshua decided to build a new house on the farm property. He had two friends from nearby farms helping him. Not having much to do, I decided to help. Joshua asked me to dig a set of holes about 2 ft deep to hold the posts for a wall. He and the others were digging with pointed iron rods. I got one of these and began to dig. The dirt here was compliant but my work was tedious because the rods were inadequate for the job. To my amazement there was about a foot of moist topsoil at this site, which Joshua knew to be typical of the farmland through this district of Muhoroni . I eventually finished one of the holes but I had to give up before I finished the second because my hands were blistering. And that night my back felt like fire from the sunburn, which was a surprise because I had been in the sun for less than an hour. My back was tan for almost a year afterward.

Friday, April 9 (Good Friday - A Kenyan Holiday)

We drove back to Kisumu for the last time with Maurice and the kids. Selpha released the driver the day before so he could go back to Nairobi for the Easter weekend. We stopped to see Henry's mother, Prisca where we also met his sisters: Rose and Susan. Together the we visited the National Museum of Kenya at Kisumu. The main gallery of the museum was full of traditional Luo artifacts. We also various pipes which Maurice explained were used in earlier times to smoke Cannabis. He explained that men would smoke in the evening to relax. We saw snakes and explored a Luo homestead. The main building was circular in design and large, with a conical grass roof and a small entry. Although the weather was hot, the inside of the building was pleasant and suprisingly cool. We left the museum grounds and traveled for the last time to Dunga refreshment for drinks.

Saturday, April 10

We left the farm for Muhoroni in the morning with Joshua, Selpha, and Joyce. At the city center I met Joseph Onyango, a chemical engineer at the sugar cane processing plant. He introduced me to his wife, who runs a small tailoring business. Then we went to visit the government supermarket. Later I met Joshua and we decided to have a drink at a local pub while the others went back to the farm. Selpha didn't like this idea and she pleaded with us to come back with them. We sipped our beers without moving. She finally drove off with the others. But in a few minutes we saw Joshua's mother at the door asking us to return with them. Joshua insisted that we could take a matatu later. She then entered the bar and asked us once again to leave with her. It was an awkward situation: a mature lady in a bar asking her grown son to come back home. Not wanting to leave myself, I asked her to sit down with us, which in retrospect would have been an even bigger breech of tradition. When she finally left, I told Joshua that she will probably be back soon with Monica. Much to my surprise I was right and they showed up and again asked us to leave. Since they wouldn't leave us alone we decided to agree this time and we returned to the farm with them.

Our plan was to leave the farm on Sunday since it would be hard to drive in the hot afternoon sun. But Selpha and Monica were intent upon leaving, so we packed and made ready to leave. When we finished packing the mood turned more solemn. Everyone had now began to realize that we were actually going and this may be the last time we would be together for a long while. We talked by the car for a few minutes then walked into the main house where Monica's mother prayed for our safe journey. Then we were finally off.

We reached Nakuru in the late afternoon. It was hot and we stopped at the Midland Hotel for a snack. Selpha called her uncle's house to see if he was home. Two of his children drove over to meet us and we followed their Mercedes back to their house in the hills of the Nakuru suburbs. Their house was close to the top, overlooking Lake Nakuru and the Rift Valley. It was enclosed by a high stone wall that was lined at the top by broken bottles -- a formidable deterrent to thieves. The security guard opened the gate and we drove inside. The sun had set some time ago and the last glimmer of twilight was rapidly disappearing. Our Nissan Sunny was unable to ascend the steep dirt driveway, so we parked close to the gate and walked up a set of high concrete steps to the house. Inside we were greeted by his family and his brother, who was also visiting. There was an abundance of furnishings in the house which imparted a warm cozy feeling. They were definitely well-off by any standard.

Selpha's uncle, Joseph Agolla, was an accountant who had acquired most of his wealth after coming into receivership for the Kenya Farmer's Association. The KFA had been dissolved by President Moi for political reasons. Actually, President Moi had dissolved KFA in order to put it's chief administrator, Mr. Cheshire out of a job. Cheshire was rumored to have slept with the President's neglected wife.

Sunday, April 11

Sunday morning we slept in and took our time with everything at a lazy, leisurely pace. Uncle Joseph told us about his encounters with President Moi. It seems a few powerful figures in the Kenyan government saw to it that he came into receivership for KFA so they could manipulate him to fatten their pockets. When he refused to cooperate, they repeatedly tried to frame him as an embezzler along with the Provincial Commissioner for the rift valley, who happened to be a friend of President Moi. Actually the PC was arrested and died later under mysterious circumstances. Joseph successfully avoided any serious problems by dealing directly with the allegations at the highest level. He related how he demanded a meeting with President Moi after he was accused of embezzlement. At the meeting, when the President began to see what was going on he asked the officials whether he should charge them for the meeting with him -- a rhetorical attempt to illustrate how low they had sunk in demanding money from Joseph just for doing their official jobs. President Moi ended the meeting by calling them all a pack of thieves.

With the sun rising higher in the sky, Joseph offered to show us around Nakuru. We followed his Mercedes and after a quick trip to the store for more film, we headed to Nakuru National Park. The gateway to the park was inhabited by cute but unfriendly monkeys. The park surrounds Lake Nakuru, which is famous for the thousands of flamingos that live there. But the lake itself was miles ahead. The dirt road which circled the lake took us first into a forest area where we could see giraffes. The Agolla's car had stopped so we could get a better look, but the kids incorrectly took this as a cue that they could get out and walk closer for a better look. We followed them as well. Uncle Joseph quickly got out and admonished us never to get out of the car, since the animals could behave unpredictably and there could even be lions nearby. With that in mind we continued the journey with the windows rolled up. Later the forest opened up into grassland where we could see the lake in the distance. But there was a single large old house not too far from the road where we stopped. This was the home of the first President of Kenya, Jomo Kenyatta. We continued toward the lake, driving over dry lakebed. For some years the underground water source of Lake Nakuru had been shifting, which had depleted water from the lake. As a result there were large flat areas of white lakebed surrounding what was left of the lake. The receding water had also created problems for the flamingo population by exposing mud in which the birds would get stuck and starve to death. But today we saw the vast multitude of pink flamingos walk and fly beautifully. Large areas of the lake were completely covered with flamingos. Sometimes they would fly low to the water, their numbers doubled in the reflection. We stopped driving several hundred feet from the water and walked toward the lake. The scale of size in this place was many times greater than my usual experience, making me feel lost in the immensity.

 

Driving onward the road continued to become more and more dusty. The Agolla's car was far ahead and out of view. We finally reached a section were there must have been up to a foot of light brown dust covering the road. We drove through it like water, with dust seeping into the car at the cracks in the doors. Ahead was the Sarova Lion Hill Hotel. Reassuring Seth that there really weren't any lions around, we walked up to the lobby for drinks. At this point we had effectively traveled completely around the lake.

 

On our way back to the Agolla's house we stopped at the Stem Hotel for dinner. It was a bit crowded with a troupe of acrobats performing in a courtyard. People sat at tables surrounding the performance and watched while they ate. Joseph found us a table and we placed our order. The acrobats were good. They performed a range of feats roughly equivalent to what you would see at a circus. But every once in a while the would make a mistakes and fall or drop something. It was enjoyable but we were hungry and our food took over an hour to arrive. Our bags were packed in the car, so after dinner we said good-bye to the Agolla's and continued onward to Nairobi.

Monday, April 12 (Easter Monday - a Kenyan Holiday)

We were back at Molly's house in Golf Course. We learned that another friend, George O., was in Kenya at this time. The sad coincidence was that he had also returned to Kenya because his father had died. Monica and I planned to meet him at a club this evening. Maurice and his girlfriend had gone with us. We showed up at the club (Florida) but George O. never appeared. Later we learned he was waiting at another club that happened to have almost the exact same name, Florida 2000. The nice thing about clubs in Kenya is that they never shut down. We could have stayed out drinking and dancing until morning, but we left at about 3 am.