The Northern Frontier District (NFD)

Jack sat in traffic, in the cold rain.  It was 5:30 – on his way home – rush hour.  Winter in Texas, cold and raining.  The light wasn’t turning green and it had been at least 3 minutes.  When it did turn green only 2 or 3 cars got through before it went to orange and then red again.   He was 20 cars or more back.  He turned up the radio to drown out his own thoughts, and his murmured cussing at the light.

“I could’a killed 3 crocs during that last red light,” he shouted, ironically over the beautiful lyrics of Bethel music singing “It is Well” (with my soul).  He wasn’t sure where that croc idea came from.  “3 crocs?”.   Then he remembered that on a recent Saturday morning he had watched a special on TV about crocodiles.  And it sparked some old memories – distant but clear memories of Africa when he was a kid – a missionary kid.

Sitting in the rain, waiting for green lights, Jack thought back to a time when he was just a teenager in Kenya.  He was 16 or 17 and it was April break.  His boarding school at Kijabe, Kenya was on a year-round plan where they had a month off in April, August and December.  Three on, one off.  It was great.

There wasn’t much to do during this April break. He could go into Nairobi to shop and eat with his sister. They could visit the Nairobi Game Park, or if money permitted, go all the way to the beach in Mombasa or Malindi – but money was tight.  Missionary life could be great – if you had money – and they didn’t.  For cash, Jack sold his ‘American’ cloths at a re-sale shop in Nairobi – they loved that stuff from the US.  He had just sold his acoustic guitar to a kid from school, and he was holding on to his electric guitar – cash for the future.  Occasionally a station kid would come get Jack and they would take guns into the woods and shoot birds and squirrels– something Jack couldn’t stomach much – the needless cruelty – but he tagged along regardless, and just watched.

Then, out of the blue, a school mate name Jay Barnett asked Jack if he would be interested in taking a road trip with him and one other guy – Jon Davis - to the “NFD” – the Northern Frontier District of Kenya.  Jay – a neighbor down the hill – would drive his fathers’ car – a Subaru wagon – with all-wheel drive and plenty of room for 3 of them and their camping equipment, some food and 4 large cans of diesel fuel strapped to the roof-rack. They would be gone for about a week – but it wasn’t exactly certain when they would be back.  Nothing was certain on a trip like that.  They just had to be back for school in May. 

Without hesitating Jack said yes – he wanted to go.  Only in Africa for about a year, he had never been to the NFD and he had no idea what to expect.  Plus, he had never been that remote or camped (rough camped) that long, anywhere.  But he wanted to tag along – besides, he had nothing else to do.

The Subaru

Their ultimate destination was a place, an area, called ‘Marsabit’, or near there somewhere – they weren’t exactly sure.  Two missionary families were working with tribes – in the middle of nowhere, not far from Lake Rudolf.  Rudolf is now called Lake Turkana – renamed after the Turkana tribe of northern Kenya.  There was the Teasdale family and the Barnett family - both hard core missionaries – survivors.  (people these days don’t understand what real survival is all about: it’s not a pretty lagoon with coconut trees on an island with a film crew behind you). The two families didn’t live anywhere near each other – they were separated by many kilometers.  The plan was to spend a couple of days with each of them and then head back to Kijabe.

They packed-up the Subaru and headed north out of Kijabe (60 clicks  - or 40 miles - north of Nairobi).   It wasn’t long before they were on a dirt road with ruts and ridges that shook the car (and their teeth) like a jack-hammer.  They found that if they achieved a certain speed, about 45kms per hour, depending on the width of the ruts in the road, which varied by mile, it lessoned the shaking effect – like driving a car with wheels that need alignment – it gets smoother when you hit that certain speed – a little less aggravating.  But sometimes that speed was too much as they had to dodge the crossing Impala and Dik-Dik along the way.  Hitting an animal would damage the car, and could possibly cripple them on the road for days with no one to help.  Jay had packed a CB radio and antenna that his father insisted they take – just in case they needed to call home – but there was an admission that neither of them really knew how to use it very well.

It was hot, so the windows were always down.  At the same time, the road was so dry and dusty that they could hardly see each other in the car as dirt consumed our bodies and clothing and everything they had packed. 

It was about 600km (~370 miles) from Kijabe to the Marsabit area.  In the U.S. – no big deal, about 5 hours cruising on a super highway with gas stations every 5 miles. But in Kenya, on mostly dirt and muddy roads,

it was a two day trip, and no rest-stops along the way.  Well, actually, all there was were ‘rest-stops’ – the open dusty wilderness teaming with animals and various tribes / herdsmen ushering their cattle, carrying spears and rungu’s, wearing nothing but a red cloth covering, red mud in their hair and colorful beads.  And they generally didn’t like Subaru’s speeding through their land making a lot of noise and spitting out black diesel fumes.  It brought too much ‘civilization’ to their land.  The boys made stops when they needed to, but they were quick, as they zipped-up and ran back to the safety of the car and sped off as quick as possible.

   

They renamed the 1974 Subaru Wagon to: ‘The Samburu’ – as they were traveling through Samburu tribe country along the way - it only seemed appropriate, and they thought maybe the Samburu ‘gods’ would look more kindly on them if this modern vehicle was named after them (and therefore, let them live).

They stopped at a remote gas station to fill the car and the empty gas tanks from the roof.  They bought a couple dozen samosa’s for a snack.  The Africans had learned the art of making samosa’s from the Indian population in Kenya.  What they didn’t learn was how to keep the flies from the samosa’s as they sat in the uncovered display near the cash register.  Still, this wasn’t unusual for any of them. Flies on restaurant food was a given, and they were so hungry that it made little difference if a fly or two were in the mix.  Protein.

The dry road was beginning to tear the Subaru apart – from underneath.  The front struts were fading fast.  It was obvious that the rough road had already done a lot of damage, and if they didn’t get the struts replaced before the trip back, extensive damage could be done to the rest of the car.  So, on that first night, at their camp-site, they pulled out the CB radio and setup the antenna – leaning it on a high branch of a nearby thorn tree.  It was dark, yet it was bright - Jack had never seen so many stars – ever.  They got a signal on the radio and eventually Jay was talking to his dad back at Kijabe station.  He told him the issue with the struts, and without hesitation his dad said that 2 new struts would be waiting for them when they arrived at the Teasdale’s the next day.  There was a small plane leaving the Kijabe airstrip the following morning and the pilot would fly to Marsabit and deliver the struts, along with other supplies – like Fed Ex next day delivery – but years before Fed Ex made it to Africa.  This was another reminder to Jack that missionaries just knew how to make things happen.  They always have a back-up plan, and they have contacts, and they pray a lot.   And, it never hurt to have some money either.  And it helped to build airstrips here and there in the wild.  It was crazy – and miraculous.   

The boys slept on the ground, no tents, next to a fire they built from small sticks laying on the ground.  Their biggest concern was scorpions – but they also worried about real animals and tribesmen who might wander in their direction.  It didn’t matter.  They slept like rocks and were never bothered by anything.  They turned their boots upside-down and shook them out before lacing up.

The Bulldozer

In the morning they packed-up and took off.  It was early evening when they arrived at the Teasdale’s home.  The house sat at the top of a small mountain – not a real mountain – but a big hill for this part of Kenya.  As they climbed the big hill, they came up behind a huge yellow earth moving bulldozer.  Jack wondered, they all wondered, how this bulldozer got here and what it was doing.  They were amazed that such a piece of equipment was out here, this remote, and that someone knew how to use it.  They followed behind it as it cut the road ahead of them – literally creating the winding road that they were using to reach the house at the top of the hill.  It amazed them to watch, moving slowly, they were driving on smooth-as-glass African red dirt toward the house.  Once there, the bulldozer pulled off to the side and the big diesel engine shut down.  A guy jumped down and out of the drivers seat to greet them.  “Welcome!” he shouted and they all introduced themselves.  He was Mr. Teasdale.  A young but rough, hardened man – with a gentle smile that all African missionaries seem to have.  He explained that his new ‘toy’ – a “CAT” bulldozer was the talk of the NFD and he was about to make in-roads (literally) to the tribes in the area.  When the rains washed out the roads – he could clear them.  He said the road up the hill was so bad after the last rain, that they would not have made it up today if he hadn’t cleared it with the bulldozer just now. 

At the house was a young, well dressed, professional looking couple visiting from Chicago. They had only just arrived a week earlier to Kenya to clear the bulldozer from customs and bring it to the Teasdale’s as a gift.   Jack wondered to himself: “how do you deliver a bulldozer to the NFD?” – but he didn’t ask – he didn’t want to show his ignorance of such things.  It seemed obvious to others that it ‘just got there’.

Two teenagers, Jim and Bobbi, were kicking a soccer ball back and forth in the front yard.  They were both students at Jack’s school in Kijabe.  Jim was one of the school’s prize rugby players, a tough stocky kid, and Bobbi was a cute tom-boy, a firecracker of a girl, always trying to compete with her brother. 

During the evening, they sat around an open fireplace in the house and the young couple wasn’t inhibited at all to tell them their story of making a good living in the financial markets – stocks, bonds, derivatives.  Because of their success, they wanted to give a substantial gift to their missionary friends in Kenya, a small donation.  They called Mr. Teasdale and simply asked: “what do you really need there – not clothing or food or a generator – no – what is it that would change your life in the NFD?”, they asked.  Without hesitation Mr. Teasdale said, “a big bulldozer – not a small one – a big one”.  A few months later – here it was. Not only that, they promised to continue to ship spare parts for the beast, as these machines tend to break-down and need constant maintenance. 

It was then that Jack realized an important truth:  there are people with the means, the will, and the know-how, to make things happen.   God blesses people He trusts, and He blesses them in different ways.

  

Dogs and Ticks

A big black dog stormed through the door of the house and spun around the living room wagging his tail and greeting all of them – jumping and sniffing for food or a toy to play with.  As Jack petted the dog and looked at him closely he noticed strange growths covering the dogs face – large lumps that nearly consumed his entire head – from mouth to eyes to ears.  He asked what those were – some were black, others red and pulsating.  Without blinking, Bobbi said, “oh, those are just ticks. We haven’t cleaned him off today”, and she started to pluck the ticks one-by-one and tossed them into the fire.  You could hear them ‘pop’ as the fire blew-up the blood-soaked ticks.   Jack scratched his ankle vigorously.      

It was then that Jack leaned another lesson:  don’t mess with that girl Bobbi, or her big black dog.

Mr. Teasdale then said “hey, your struts came in today by plane – they’re in the garage”.  Although it was getting dark, they all went out to install the new struts on the Subaru.  The Teasdale’s had dug a large hole in the side of the hill so that cars and trucks could be carefully driven over the hole where they could work on vehicles from beneath – another amazing engineering feat to do all kinds of maintenance such as changing oil, fixing transmissions, and replacing struts.  Between them, the job was done within an hour.  It seemed there was nothing too difficult for them.

Lake Rudolf   (Lake Turkana)

The next day, it was decided that they would all go fishing and Croc hunting on Lake Rudolf.  They would camp and then spend the following night on the beach, on the lake.  Hearing this, Jack calmly asked, “croc hunting? What do you mean?”.  To which the nonshalent answer was simply, “Ya – croc hunting – you know, crocodiles? There are a lot of

them there and we’ve been wanting to kill one for the skin. Bobbi has been wanting a skin for her room.”
“Hmm, this will be different,” Jack thought, and he cracked a smile to himself, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

From the corner of his eye, looking out the kitchen window, Jack saw Mr. Teasdale hooking up a boat and trailer to the back of a very big heavy-duty GMC king cab dually pickup truck.  Swallowing his instant coffee quickly, Jack blurted out: “a boat? – are you kidding me?”   And it wasn’t just a boat – it was a big in-board ski boat.  It was red, and it said “Malibu” on the side.  “Another gift from friends back in the states,” Jack whispered to himself.  “Holy cow, we’re really doing this!”

Mr. Teasdale came into the house and shouted - “we might as well get some skiing in while we’re at it!  Have you ever skied Jack?”  “Once or twice – but not a lot,” Jack said.  “Did you say there were crocodiles in that lake?”  There was no answer to his question.

They all helped by tossing things into the boat and packing it carefully so that nothing would fall or blow out on the way to the lake:  camping supplies, cooking oil, shovels, knives, a Coleman stove, propane gas, 4 fishing rods and reels, a folding table, bags of food,  bottled water, a big red cooler full of ice, six folding chairs, torches to stick in the sand, sleeping bags, a pair of skis with rope.  And 2 high powered Springfield rifles – both .30-06’s, and a box of big bullets.

The family said good-bye to Mrs. Teasdale and 8 of them climbed into or onto the truck.  Mr. Teasdale drove, Jim and Bobby sat in the front seat with him.  The rich young couple from Chicago climbed into the bed of the truck with Jack.  Jay and John sat in the back seat.        

Nearing the lake, it got rocky.  Not just rocky, there were big white boulders covering the approach to the shoreline.  They were making there way to a beachy area along the shore.  They rocked back and forth as the dually used all four wheels to navigate the boulders.  It was slow going until they finally reached sand, and everyone climbed out.  This was a place the Teasdale’s had camped many times before.

They made camp. The family shouted instructions as to what went where: tables, chairs, where to put supplies and where to stretch out sleeping bags and blankets.  Strict instructions were given as to where to go to the bathroom – “behind those rocks over there – and don’t forget to announce your approach – in case someone is already back there.  And make sure to bury it in the sand as deep as you can – use this shovel when you go over there.  None of us wants to step into it, and we don’t want to attract any un-friendlies.”

Jack shouted, “roger that!”, as he silently dreaded the thought.

Mr. Teasdale backed the boat trailer to the edge of the water.  The water was calm, smooth as glass.  They helped rig-up the fishing rods.  If they were going to eat a fresh meal, they needed to catch some fish soon.  Jim shouted: “I hope everyone likes Nile Perch?  - that’s what we’re going for. We’ll catch all that we can and deep fry it – my mom packed her secret recipe spices - you won’t believe how good it is!”   

That afternoon they fished from the beach.  It wasn’t long before they had caught 11 or 12 good sized perch.  They each took turns casting, catching and dragging the fish up the sand, as Bobbi removed hooks and lures from their mouths.  Jim cleaned and sliced up the fish like a pro.  He was careful not to throw the fish scraps into the water or on the beach – because of the crocs.  They were already drawing too much attention to the beach with the fresh Nile Perch flapping around in the water.  He bagged all the ‘parts’ into a big plastic bag and through it into the back of the pick-up.  Jim put his mom’s secret spices on and around the fish and put the filets in a large plastic tub to soak until dinner.     

Later that afternoon, the group was soaking up the African sun and talking among themselves on the beach.  They were all in shorts and tank-tops and most of the guys had their shirts off, tanning.  A group of Turkana were standing on rocks at the edge of the water - looking toward them – not moving – about 30 or 40 yards away.   No one seemed to notice or to be bothered by them, but Jack.  The Turkana seemed harmless – just curious as to what the ‘white people’ were doing on their lake.

Skiing with Crocs

Mr. Teasdale suddenly fired up the pickup and backed the boat into the water. Then he beached the boat so it wouldn’t drift away.  He tied up the ski rope and placed the skies at the back of the boat.  He pulled out one of his Springfield rifles and announced that he would ride “shot-gun” if anyone wanted to ski.  He was excited and pleaded for anyone to go out with him.  He assured them that he would keep watch as they skied.  If he saw a croc, he would kill it - simple.  “Don’t worry – the noise of the motor usually scares them away.”   Bobbi was the first to volunteer – not a bit hesitant.  The young couple from Chicago stayed behind on the beach, to watch over the camp.  The boat motor fired up, they pushed off the beach and headed out into the lake.

It was breathtaking.  Jack wished he had a camera.  The smooth glistening water.  The wake left behind them as they sped across the surface.  The bright white clouds against the blue sky.  The Turkana men on the waters edge.  The man with his rifle, looking sharply, back and forth, scanning the water for crocs as the skiers were towed 20 years behind the boat.  When one of them went down, they quickly spun the boat to make the pick-up.  That was the most dangerous time – in the water – prone – and fighting with the skis to stay afloat.  It was surreal.

It was Jack’s turn and he did pretty good for a kid from New Jersey.  When he finally fell to the water, his mind raced, wondering what could be lurking below.  There were no lifejackets, so he kept treading water – and was scanning for crocs – until the boat circled around quick to pick him up.  Seeing Mr. Teasdale with the rifle gave him peace as he climbed into the boat.

No one was hurt.  No shots were fired.

That night around the campfire - they all laughed and bragged about their bravery - skiing with the crocs on Lake Rudolf.  The Nile Perch was deep fried, crispy and beautiful tasting.  There was plenty to eat.  As the moon rose over the lake they chose their spots to sleep as close to the fire as possible.  Little white scorpions were a concern – but killing all that they saw seemed to do the trick – and Jim sprayed the sand with some sort of homemade scorpion killer – in a circle around them – to ward off any new comers.   

Hunting Crocs

The sun rose early over the lake and the camp was stirring.  There was coffee heating on the open fire.  Mr. Teasdale made it know that he wanted to get an early start on the boat. He also made it clear that “if we want to get a good shot at a croc sunning on the beach, we needed to be in position early in the morning”.  Jack stretched and turned his boots upside down and shook them hard before putting them on – no scorpions. 

He grabbed a paper cup and poured a cup of coffee out of the aluminum pot.  It was good.  There was bread and butter to go with it, with marmalade jelly from the states.  From a distance he saw a Turkana man walking toward the camp, across the sand.  Jack asked, “should we worry about that guy?”  Mr. Teasdale said no, he had arranged for him to come over.  He was the guide for the day and would show them the best place to get a croc.  Not only that, he would skin whatever they got – as long as he could keep the meat for his family.   That was his pay – the crocodile meat.  The Turkana walked to the boat and simply stood there – and waited.   They all quickly rolled up their sleeping bags and tossed them into the bed of the truck. 

The couple from Chicago wanted to come along – this was something even they didn’t want to miss.  Jim and Bobbi offered to stay behind, the boat wasn’t big enough for them all – and if they got a croc they needed the space to bring him back to the camp for skinning – and if it was a big one, they needed a lot of space.   

  

They headed out – it was still early and the sun was just rising over the horizon, by about an inch – but it was hot, very hot.  The Turkana pointed south, raising his spear high and pushing it out in front of him – with a big smile.  Before long they could see a rise, above a bright white beach.  The Turkana shouted in Swahili above the noise of the motor.  Mr. Teasdale shook his head and yelled back.  They both smiled and the throttle of the boat slowed, and the wake behind them lessoned.  The issue was the noise.  They needed to approach the beach slow and quiet.

Still four or five hundred yards out, Jack could see dark spots on the white beach - crocs.  The Turkana whispered something to Mr. Teasdale and he turned the boat to the west – ‘chiiiiichiiiiii’ the Turkana made quiet noises to slow the boat down.   “No one talk – everyone quiet” whispered Mr. Teasdale.   They came up on the west side of the beach and shut down the motor as they drifted to the white sand.  Quietly, they climbed from the boat into the water and dragged the boat to the sand to secure it.  The Turkana lifted his spear and pointed to the hill to the left.  Silently they followed the Turkana to the side of hill and started climbing up the brush.   “Chiiiiichiiiiii” the Turkana continued to make his signal, letting them all know to be as quiet as possible – and move quietly.  They all climbed the tree and rock covered hill for what seemed hundreds of feet – straight up.   Once near the top they followed a narrow path to the east, still climbing.  Mr. Teasdale had his rifle slung over this shoulder, but the others were carrying nothing, only trying to balance themselves among the trees and rocks.  

The Turkana stopped at a large boulder, and carefully, quietly, climbed up on top of the boulder – and peered over the edge looking down on the white beach below.  He was peering down on a beach full of crocodiles – 20 or more – sunning in the heat of the morning.  They took turns peering down – “take a look Jack”, said Mr. Teasdale.  “This is amazing!  If they knew we were up here they would run back into the water – so let’s be quiet.

“I’m going to pick a big one, and I have to be careful, shooting down hill is tough – the scope doesn’t help much – I need to make a lot of judgement calls and it needs to be a kill shot.  If I wound it, it will just go into the water and we’ll never get it, it will die at the bottom of the lake, and all the others will jump and run when they hear the noise of the shot – so it’s one and done – no second shots.” 

Jack was in awe.  He sat and watched Mr. Teasdale lift his rifle and plant it on his shoulder as he stretched his body across the big boulder – pointing down at the beach.  Jack kept his eye on the beach – at the family of crocs.  He had no idea which croc Mr. Teasdale had in his sights.  The others sat quietly against the hill – waiting for the explosion of the rifle.  They waited for 2 or 3 minutes before the shot was fired.

BOOM!  The rifle fired – and the shot from the .30-06 rang across the canyon and over the lake and reverberated back again. 

It was done.  Jack looked down, as all of the crocs jumped quickly and ran with their little legs into the water, causing a violent eruption of splashing and waves as they plunged into the depths of the lake.

All but one.

One croc, a solidary guy, did not move.  It lay flay on the beach and never flinched.  That was the kill shot.  Jack had sudden remorse for the crocodile – Jack wasn’t a hunter.  Even as a teenager, Jack couldn’t see the delight some hunters took in killing wild animals.  But he was sure this one never suffered – it was too quick.  And he was assured that the meat was going to the Turkana who needed it for his family.  Nothing went to waist in the NFD.

Mr. Teasdale was elated, satisfied with the shot he took – the smile on his face told the complete story.  He shouldered the rifle and said, “Let’s move!”  The rest of them were speechless – ears still ringing and in awe of what just happened.  They quickly headed back down the hill to the beach.  The dead croc was about 50 yards away – just laying there.  As they approached the prehistoric beast - they slowed down their pace and circled it.  No movement.  They were most worried about the water and the other crocs who might re-appear and come back up the beach to get them.  But there was no activity.  


“Wait here – I’m going to pull the boat up and keep the motor running in shallow water to keep the other crocs away – then we need to lift him into the boat”, said Mr. Teasdale.  He ran down the beach, back to the boat, firing up the motor, then beached it close to them and the dead croc.  Jack grabbed a rope.  Slowly, he and Jon carefully tied the rope around the crocs massive nose and mouth to keep it shut – four wraps around and a strong knot - just a precaution.  They all helped to flip him over on his back, and then dragged and lifted the beast into the boat.  Jack grabbed the prehistoric tail – but it took all of them to lift it up and over the side and plop it down in the middle of the hull.  His length, head to tail nearly reached from stern to bow of the boat.  There was blood – a lot of blood - soaking the floor of the boat and Jack lifted his feet.  All of a sudden the croc winced and his massive tail swung back and forth.  Everyone let out a simultaneous scream – “what!! – it’s still alive!!”.   But it stopped.  Mr. Teasdale said it was just a left-over muscle twitch – “it happens all the time – he’s really dead – don’t worry about it.”

It didn’t give any of them much peace, and the ‘rich-couple-from-Chicago’ moved as far away from the croc that they could get without falling off the railing of the boat.   The Turkana put his bare foot on the crocs head – and kept his spear pointed at the croc - letting them know there was no issue – nothing to fear.

They sped off – back to the beach camp.  On arrival, they all jumped out to secure the boat on the beach – and they lifted and dragged the croc to some rocks at distance from the camp.  The Turkana took a small knife and began to skin it - carefully keeping the pattern of the head, legs and tail.  It was a gruesome sight, but Jack was fascinated by the speed and skill of the skinning.  Mr. Teasdale brought big plastic bags and a bucket of salt to the skinning area.   The Turkana packed the salt over the skin and put it into one of the bags.  (Bobbi would have her skin to hang in her room).  Then he cut large sections of the beast and salted them before putting those into five or six bags.  This was his prize for the hard work he was doing.

During the cutting process a number of Turkana children had gathered around to witness the excitement.  They giggled and laughed – pointing at the croc, and the white people.

  

Later, Jack was kicking himself for not asking for a croc tooth – as a souvenir.  In the heat of the moment it had never crossed his mind. 

Later that afternoon, they packed up camp and loaded the boat back onto the trailer.  It was time to get back to the Teasdale’s house.  

Isiolo

Early the next morning, Jay radioed the Barnett’s to tell them their plan to come by their home later that day and asked if it was still OK for the three of them to spend the night.  They confirmed and would be waiting for them that afternoon.


Jay, Jon and Jack said their goodbyes to the Teasdale’s and drove off in the Subaru.  Their next destination was to the south of the NFD near the town of Isiolo. 

The ride was long and dusty, but it was still light when they arrived in the early evening.  The three boys drove up to the Barnett’s home, and were greeted by the Barnett family.  Mr. Barnett was building a new house.  His cloths were dirty and he was sweating profusely - his appearance overall was rough.  But they gave hugs as they strolled over to an area where he was building a house.  He had created a makeshift concrete block making machine, like brick making – but it produced larger concrete blocks that were used for the outer wall of the house.  And the cement didn’t need firing, like brick.  A real “DIY” setup.  The concrete was mixed in a mixer, poured into a form the size of a block, and left to dry.  The dry blocks were stacked and leveled – one by one – to form the outer wall of the house.  This place would be standing for decades.

There were two Samburu men helping him and they just kept at it, like machines, as Mr. Barnett gave the boys a ‘tour’ of the construction site.  Once he finished the house they would start on the new church.  For now, the Barnett’s were living in tents.

It was a camp really – but it was a real home.  To the left was a homemade outhouse.  To the right was a makeshift wooden shower hut - with a large aluminum tank on the top to collect rain water.  A big screened tent in the middle was the kitchen and supply tent.  And two larger tents stood side-by-side in the distance for sleeping.  The noise of a generator hummed in the background.  A few big trees provided shade – it was an oasis in this desert.  Jack thought he wouldn’t mind at all living here and working to build homes and a church.  It would be a rough but satisfying life.    

Jack and the guys were feeling dirty from the trip – just a lot of dust and sweat.  They whispered to each other about the odds of taking a shower before dinner and sleeping.  Mrs. Barnett overheard them and said to go for it – but to keep the showers very short – “no more than 2 minutes each – we haven’t had much rain lately and the tank is getting low. When you’re out I’ll have dinner ready!”    Starving - they each took turns in the small shower hut – and they all sat down to a meal of Impala stew and cornbread.  The boys thought they had died and gone to heaven.

Morning Posho

They slept, and when they woke there was a big crowd of Samburu men, women and children in the camp – some standing and some sitting on the ground – all eating from tin bowls.  The talking was quiet and Jack could only make out a word or two of the Samburu Swahili.  The children ran in circles between bites.  Mr. and Mrs. Barnett were engaged in conversation with them all - as Mrs. Barnett dished up scoops of ‘posho’ for each of the visitors.  “Guys, come get some oatmeal,” shouted Mr. Barnett, “and meet our friends.”

As Jack got closer Mr. Barnett whispered to him, “the men are posho machines Jack – a bowl of this in the morning and they work all day long helping me with the cement blocks.  For most of them, this is all they will eat today.  We feed our neighbors every morning – and they appreciate it.”

 Jack, Jay and John helped clean-up the camp after breakfast and spent a few hours working with the Samburu men making blocks for the house – mixing concrete and pouring it into the forms to dry.       

         

The Swimming Hole

Later, Mr. Barnett suggested they all go up the hill – into the woods – up that way – and “check out the swimming pool – go for a swim – it’s really refreshing! You can’t miss it – just keep your eyes open – come back in an hour so we know you’re ok.”  So, they hiked in that direction and sure enough they came to a small pond, and it was obvious that the family was using it for a swimming pool, of sorts.  There was even a beach towel hanging on a branch nearby.  The pond was shaped in a circle, about 10 feet across with a grassy edging to sit on. The water was cold – amazingly cold compared to the heat they felt in the air.  The boys took off their shirts and got in to cool off.  It was an official mud hole – for sure.  Their feet sunk into the mud - about 6 inches deep at the bottom – cold, smooth mud between their toes.  It felt amazing – and they named it the “NFD Country Club”.  

After about an hour they went back down to the camp.  But Jack realized something was wrong – and he panicked.  Embarrassed to mention it – he told Jay and John that he needed to go back to the mud hole – he had lost his silver ring in the water.  “We’ll never find it – that mud is so deep,” said John.  Jack insisted that he at least needed to try.  The ring was a gift from a ‘friend’ back home – and the sentimental value demanded he try to find it in the mud.  There was a rake leaning against one of the tents.  Jack grabbed it and said – “this will help – I’ll rake the bottom of the pond, through the mud, and maybe the ring will get caught on the blades.”  They told the Barnett’s they had forgotten something and ran back up the hill.  Jack climbed into the pool and raked through the mud and lifted the rake after each pass to see if he had caught anything on one of the blades.  After 20 minutes of this grueling process, he gave it one last try – and there it was, dangling from one of the points – was his silver ring. “No way!” laughed Jay.  They cheered with victory and ran back to the camp.

By early afternoon the weather changed – clouds blew, and the rain was about to come down.  The air had a fresh and cool smell to it now.  They hadn’t seen rain in days, but it was good news and bad.  The dusty roads would soon turn to miserable mud on the roads.  They decided to head out of this camp and move on.  They gave their farewells and packed-up the Subaru. 

Deep Mud

The rain pounded on the Subaru -visibility was bad, and the wiper blades couldn’t keep up with the downpour.   The three of them drove for a couple hours, slowly, but they began to slip from the left side of the road to the right, and back again.  Luckily there were no other cars on that desolate road – no cars, no animals, no people.  Eventually the Subaru came to a stop and wouldn’t move forward.  The tires were spinning.  In the heavy rain, John and Jack jumped out and headed toward a couple small trees looking for branches, sticks and rocks.  They collected a dozen good sized branches and a few rocks - and dragged them to the car – tucking them under rear tires, and the front tires, as the Subaru was all-wheel drive.  If Jay could get the tread of the tires up and over the debris, it might get them on their way.  It worked – and both Jon and Jack were covered with the mud being spun out by the tires.  Jack yelled for Jay to keep moving and they would jump into the back - on a run.  If Jay stopped the car, it would simply sink into the mud again.

Their success was short lived.  About a mile down the road they were stuck again – and this time it was worse.  They tried the branch and stick trick, but to no avail – the mud was too deep – and the car was too small.  They needed someone to pull them out with a winch.

The rain was slowing, and the clouds were moving on.  They could see Mt. Kenya to the south – a towering mountain, 18,000 feet tall, poking it’s snowcapped jagged head into the sky.  The view was incredible.

Now the rain had stopped, but it could be hours, or days, before the mud dried enough to work the car free on its own.  There were no other cars coming by.  John suggested getting on the radio and calling for help.  They fished out the radio equipment from the back of the Subaru and walked barefoot to a nearby tree to setup the radio and antenna.  There were no immediate answers for help.

So, they sat there.  Muddy, barefoot and nearly naked – it was getting hot.   

A couple hours later, they made contact with a woman on the radio.  She said she was on that same road in her Land Cruiser and was likely just a few miles behind them.  She confirmed that she had a winch on the Cruiser and would help get them out.  Sure enough they saw her coming in that beautiful Toyota beast.  She was a big women, an American, and a nurse.   Driving a new safari green Land Cruiser with a winch.  A thing of beauty.  A ‘site-for-sore-eyes’ in a way that the boys needed.  Jack whispered to the other two, “God works in mysterious ways.”

She didn’t need any help – insisting that she ‘had it.’  She rigged-up the cable, attached it to the frame of their precious ‘Samburu’ and within twenty minutes – they were on their way – free and clear.  Then, she disappeared.  Like an angel, appeared and then just disappeared.

Late that night, they pulled into Kijabe.  They had completed their NFD adventure, and school would be starting back in a few days.  After that trip, the boys rarely spoke.  They moved on.

 

 

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Jack thought back on that road trip to the NFD.  It struck him that he couldn’t remember ever having any feelings of fear or insecurity while on that trip.  Only complete contentment, satisfaction and joy.

That’s what Jack remembered about one week in Africa, during the April school break, a long time ago.

The light turned green, and he headed home.

  

Bugibba Bocci

Jack sat in the old wooden stadium chair, in the sun, enjoying the 2 matches being played below on the Bocci courts.  The weather on this island of Malta, in February, was unpredictable.  The Mediterranean sun could be blistering in the summer, but this day in February was ideal for Bocci.   65 degrees, and with the surf pounding on the rocks below, and a cold Diet Coke in hand – it was perfect.

 

This small village of Bugibba had one of the finest bocci clubs on the island, and drew a lot of local Maltese for daily pick-up matches.

    

“Nicely played!” shouted Jack (not actually knowing what just happened).  One of the old Maltese men looked up and smiled with a gentle ‘thank you’.   His toss of the green block had knocked out the opponents red block, getting his team closest to the lick.  That play was worth 4 points on the round.
  

(Jack later learned that the "lick", or the 'Jack' ball is the small marble that becomes the target, then there are 3 'balls' the size of golf balls that are tossed toward the lick, and 8 cylinders 'blocks' that are tossed toward the lick - not round like other bocci sets, but more squared off blocks made of wood, to roll awkwardly and unpredictably).

Jack began nodding off as he sat there – absorbing the sun – he had closed his eyes.  Then he heard a voice: “hey!  Come play – we need 1 more!”.   The Maltese man was speaking to Jack – pointing at him – and insisting that he come down to the court to play bocci with them.  They needed one more player to complete the team.  “I don’t really know how to play”, said Jack.  “No problem, bocci is 80% luck and 20% skill – come on – it’ll be fun!”.  Jill said 'GO - do it!'
 
So, for the next 2 hours Jack played bocci, in Malta, at the Bugibba Bocci Club – with a bunch of retired Maltese men, without a care in the world.  They joked with him, his Americanisms, his form, his lack of bocci knowledge.  They explained the differences between Malta bocci and bocci played in the rest of the world.    

  

Jack looked at his watch.  He and Jill needed to catch the bus back to St. Julians - so needed to leave the match early.  He wanted to be one of these guys, spending their afternoons together in Bugibba, not a care in the world, playing bocci.  They all shook hands and said goodbyes.

Jack called back - “I’ll be back!”   Sitting on the bus, he promised himself that he would, be back, maybe for good.

Tigoni 529

Jack stood quietly at the counter in the office at Kiambogo.
  
“No. Tigoni-529, not 59” – Jack repeated again to the operator who was trying to connect him by phone to a house in Limuru, Kenya.  As he waited for a connection, he wondered why it was “Tigoni-529’ and not ‘Limuru-529’ – he knew she lived in Limuru, and Tigoni was the next town over – 'it's another one of those African things', his mind wandered - he felt helpless. The operator didn’t speak good English, and Jack didn’t speak Swahili.  It was a painful process, but in 1975 – it was the only way to make a phone call in the hill country of Kenya.

 

"It's ringing" she said, and handed the phone to Jack.  He stretched the long black cord as far away as he could, inching toward the far wall of the small office here at Rift Valley Academy.  The 2 ladies behind the counter could hear every word he said - nothing was private here.  He heard them giggle as he awkwardly tried to muffle his voice into the big black receiver of the old phone.

  

Jack, now just 16, a boy – was desperate to hear her voice – one more time before the day ended.  He only had 4 shillings to his name, and this was taking 2 of those shillings, so he didn’t want to waste time talking to an operator.

    

When Jill picked-up the phone, the conversation started.  But ended, too soon.  They both had fumbled over words, not able to complete entire sentences without those uncomfortable pauses – teenagers falling all over themselves to say just the right thing – but not doing well at saying anything at all.  Still – they spoke, and Jack now had enough energy and hope to get him to the next day.  It was school break – a month of separation, and Jack’s heart ached.  It was just too long to wait.  He had to see Jill soon. 

  

Jacks father had a car, but it was difficult to drive the distance – the rains had come, the mud was thick, besides, what would they do, even if they did get a chance to meet before the next semester started?

   

“Hi, yes it's me again.  Can you ring-up Tigoni-529?” – he asked the operator at Kiambogo the next day.  "No, 529, not 59".  His last 2 shillings. 

SoCal - Harbor Blvd

Jack found his Avis car in slot D11, a small Toyota Corolla – red.   It would do. He tossed his roller-bag in the trunk and plugged in his TomTom.   He pulled out of John Wayne airport and headed toward the 5 north – toward Anaheim.  The sun was bright and the sky was blue – what he always remembered about Southern California – the palm trees, the freeways, the sense of excitement that was hard to describe.   He felt like he was home, even though Texas ran through his blood, thick, traces of California would never leave – like a gene – it was part of him – part of his DNA. 

This trip was all business – no pleasure.  Moving slowly through traffic, stop and go, there was a hole in his heart.  A phone call – likely breaking the law, he answered his cell only to be reminded that no matter where he went – he could never get away from work.  Yet, thankful to be working – even if. . . even if he didn't need to.

As he exited on Harbor Blvd. in Anaheim toward the Hilton, that hole in Jack’s heart became bigger.  Being in Southern California was something he and Jill did – together.  It wasn’t right to be here alone.  For decades, it had become their annual destination.   Half of him was missing.  The seat next to him, in this Toyota Corolla, was empty.  That cute blonde was back in Texas – she should be here, he thought – sitting right there.  And it just didn’t fit.  Nothing was right.  Jack needed to end this trip as quick as possible, and get back to Texas - back to Jill.