From A Fort Under The Oiti Tree

It’s overcast and chilly; an oxymoron to what one probably thinks of in East Central Africa.  I have on a T-shirt, long sleeve, and hoodie sweatshirt.  Still, I wouldn’t mind a fleece beanie to replace the baseball cap I’m wearing; to cover my head and stay warm.  I can hear the bells of the lead goats and the occasional voices of the herders off in the distance.  The laughter from playing children can be heard from the closest boma somewhere to the North.  They speak Maa; the language of the Maasai.

Very small birds flit and flutter around me; some very close.  And yet, they are much faster than my own reflexes and the time I would need to raise my camera and capture them in a photo as they go about their business.  I wonder what they are saying to each other.  Are they sharing information about their food sources?  Are they staking claim to their territory?  Or are they simply going about their day, and greeting each other when in close proximity? Regardless, they are receptive to my presence and for that I am both grateful and blessed.

I’m wedged into the base of a small shrub-like tree called the oiti in the local, native tongue.  It’s the kind of tree that would have been fun to play under as a child for its bowed branches form a canopy around its basin.  Its shape creates what I would have considered a fort; a place where my young eyes could peer out, my imaginative mind could dream, and where I could revisit time and again.  I might have come with a book to read, a snack to eat, or a board to place between the two main trunks and create a bench seat.  Instead I am holding my journal against my knee while writing thoughts into words.  Most would say that the way I’m sitting looks uncomfortable, and although they wouldn’t be far from the truth, I’m making it work.  Besides, if I had brought that small scrap board I might not leave, or in the very least, I might elect to stay hunkered down for a longer chunk of time.

My View As I Peer Out From Under
The Branches Of The Oiti Tree

The herders are getting closer.  Wouldn’t they be surprised if they wander by my hiding spot and become startled at my presence; wondering what I’m up to with my camera, journal, and wooden pencil?  I think they will pass by in the distance, however, as it’s about time for them to guide the goats back to the protective confines of their thorny enclosure beside that of the donkeys.

Thirty to forty feet above the shrub in which I sit towers an acacia tree.  After the rainy season, the leafed out branches from both will provide shade and coolness from the heat that will surely follow.  For now it is my base camp this particular afternoon.

The Oiti On The Left And
The Acacia On The Right

Eight years ago I sat close to this very spot; here on the opposite side of the Earth from where I live.  At that time I also wrote in a journal without any idea or concept that I would ever return; this land where my son and his family now reside.  When here first, I marked the occasion by stacking a few precious rocks against the base of the taller acacia.  In time those rocks have scattered, but today I’ve again gathered up what I could find, added some others, and placed them against the base of both the acacia and the oiti.  The rocks are the multifaceted remnants scattered across this vast Kajiado Region - once spewed from Kilimanjaro itself long, long ago.  In the grand scheme they hold no meaning, but to me, piled rocks are sacred.  Such a thing is unobtrusive, and to anyone walking by, they will surely go unnoticed.  But I’ll know they are here supporting the tree from erosion; protecting what has been here longer than most.  I know other places like this, in out of the way spots, scattered across North America and now Africa as well.  I like to picture the rocks I’ve piled back home providing habitat for chipmunks, crickets, and garter snakes.  Here they become home to large beetles, scorpions, and perhaps a lookout post for the orkabobo ground squirrel that’s wont to check for danger.

Rocks At The Base Of The Acacia

Rocks At The Base Of The Oiti

As dusk’s dim light ebbs under layered clouds, and dinner looms in the near future, I finish my writing and stick some random feathers from a guinea and unknown raptor into the crevices of the tree bark.  It’s not so much for me, like a flag thrust into moon dust to stake a claim, as it is for the feather itself.  Now it can dance with the breezes as a tribute to the noble species who lost it in molt; prolonging if just for a little while its eventual decay into the earth from which it came.

A Guinea Fowl Feather

Until next time hidden fort in the oiti tree, may you be blessed with adequate sunlight, ample water, and just the right amount of nourishment that allows you to continue to grow strong and upright in symbiotic unity with the nearby acacia.  May you provide shelter and food to the living things around you, while bringing stability to the soil that so desperately needs to be anchored against erosion.  Next time I promise to bring that small board with the notches that allows it to gently wedge within your branches.  I will sit longer, listen intently, and learn more of your story; that tale that tells of your present purpose and how you came to be.  I look forward to that time we’ll spend together as I peer out from under your fort like branches.

See you along The Way…

At The Base Of The Black Mountain
On Kijani Farm in Kenya, Africa.

Forty Feet Behind The Tree I Sat In
I Found This Massive Hole...
Big Enough That I Could Have Crawled Into It!
(I'd Like To Believe It belonged To A Warthog
As Opposed To The Hyena : )

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Picture From 2017 Below:

The Same Trees And Area.

Billowing Kenyan Curtains

The curtains billow with the morning breezes; the same breezes created by the rising sun.  These Kenyan textiles have been hung to cover the wrought iron windows and uniform muntins.  Black welded metal, perhaps otherwise cold and unyielding, are made soft by the alabaster walls and interior screens which allow a myriad of sounds to enter the home.

The timbre of birds reestablish their position and territories after a dark night.  Birds unfamiliar to my ears are yet comforting and wonderful in their consistency and patterned chirps, trills, and coos.  So many different species; unique in size, plumage, and shape.  Their feather coloration is not unlike the brightly colored cloth of the window drapes - still pulsating from the cool air as sails that hang from the mast of a ship.  The coolness, a contradiction to what one often thinks regarding the bush of Africa.

White Bellied Go-Away-Bird

D'Arnaud's Barbet

Von der Decken's Hornbill

Red And Yellow Barbet

Those bright colors of the flowing shuka tapestry are patterned, striped, and checkered with vibrant, vivid colors so traditional of the Maasai.  A tradition fashioned in pride and bound by community.  The colors speak for themselves when used as a shawl, sash, or body covering of some sort.  Colors become the voice.  And so as curtains, the cloth is perfect; flowing movement with a deep, rich meaning that provides shade as well as loving hospitality.

Goats head out to browse on what they can find.  Their bleating and baaing mingle with the clanging of bells tied to collars buckled around a couple of the does.  Bells allow the herder to locate them in the thick, thorny brush.  Protection comes through proximity and strength in numbers.  The Kijani herd is now at 36 plus some baby kids only a couple of days old.  The donkeys used to pull carts, and deliver fresh water to those who are unable to come collect it themselves, bray loudly over and over like a necessary alarm clock you would rather not hear.  They do not want to be left behind and only wish to join the goats on their foraging venture.  Hens cluck amidst the crowing roosters to round out the morning ruckus - a soothing symphony for an early riser.  And for the once upon a time farm boy, the chorus of domestic animal sounds sifting through the mesh screens of the open windows are themselves a pleasant wake-up call.

As the sun rises in the east, or sets in the west, the light shines through the windows.  To keep it cool, the curtains are often drawn, allowing the cement floor to comfort one's feet.  Here in Southern Kenya, so near the equator, daylight and nighttime are split 50/50 almost year ‘round.  The sunrise and sunset settles in around 6:30 AM and PM - each receiving their allotted 12 hour cycle.  Dusk and dawn barely exist once the sun dips or rises over the distant mountains on the horizon.  Through the windows we passively mark time.

Sunrise

Sunset

The windows work inversely as well; sending sounds to the outdoors.  Depending on whether the sun’s rays fall directly on the roof or are shielded by clouds, the solar powered inverter in the corner closet speeds up or slows down accordingly.  Although white noise, you can hear it in the background.  Grandson plays on his mat in the corner; now reaching his hands to grab at the suspended mobile; presently favoring his left as a southpaw.  His coos and screeching sounds of glee mix with occasional cries; communications of desire, sleepiness, and contentment.  Farm workers passing by smile knowingly at his declarations, while superb starlings tilt their head slightly in wonder.  All the while the curtains billow.

Superb Starling

At night, not as far off into the distance as one might think or hope, comes the drawn out whoop of a hyena - often followed by barking dogs from a neighboring boma; ever alert and on guard.  It’s an otherwise gentle reminder of just where we lie our heads to sleep.  Squeaking bats, in constant audible communication, catch insects on the wing as they fly with erratic precision.  Sporadic gusts catch the open windows and shake them so the metal clanks and rattles.  It is a by-product of the present dry season, as eventually those same winds will usher in Kenya’s second season with rain.

Moonlight Through The Muntins

But for now the curtains billow with the morning breezes; the same breezes created by the rising sun.  These Kenyan textiles have been hung to cover the wrought iron windows and uniform muntins.  Black welded metal, perhaps otherwise cold and unyielding, are made soft by the alabaster walls and interior screens which allow a myriad of sounds to enter the home.

See you along The Way…