At
7:00 a.m. Todd’s phone alarm played us a melody. I think it did twice. We wrestled our bodies from the pillow after
six solid hours of sleep. Easily we
could have taken more, and would have obliged with half a chance, but we were
definitely refreshed. In the distance I could hear the calls of farm animals. Dressing quickly
and arranging some of our gear, we went downstairs to meet the others of our
Team. The hotel provided a
complimentary, continental breakfast.
Back home in the States this would have meant you could pour yourself a
small box of dry cereal in a styrofoam bowl and added a piece of fruit and
yogurt barely bigger than a mouthful. If
you were lucky and living right, they might even provide you with a waffle machine; which could be fun if you figured out how to use
it. At the “67 Airport Hotel” our
breakfast was more like a twelve dollar, all-you-can-eat buffet. Call it what you will, but I enjoyed it;
having a little bit of fresh fruit, potatoes, plantain, sausage, a hardboiled
egg, spinach, bacon, and some water and juice.
I ate enough, and something balanced, but not too much. We packed, loaded, and once they finally got
the rented truck started, left. The
convoy included the truck and two rented vans from Moriah African Safari Tours
Company, that Kijani Farm uses quite often to help get teams from point A to
point B. The vans were led by a man
named Anthony Wachira, who is also a good friend and member of the board for
Kijani Farm.
Loading Up
A Nearby Building Under Construction-Check Out The Scafolding
The
drive into and out of the hotel is what can best be considered as a rutted alley
amongst empty lots and newer brick and cement construction; most have walls
built around them. We saw traffic of
cars, motorcycles, buses, and semi trucks, but many people were walking;
heading somewhere, most to work. People
stood outside of shops and businesses, and may not have had much, but they
dressed elegantly, and you could tell they had pride.
Nyles Bates, Kristin & Patty Scholz, Jake Rogers & I In The Van
We
traveled to an ATM machine for the shillings we might need later (one shilling
is about one U.S. cent), and also stopped at a small grocery store (Naivas Supermarket). We bought eggs, fruit, and vegetables. Having worked in a small store like this in
high school and summers through college, I loved the atmosphere. It also reminded me of when my cousins and I
stop at a small store each summer before heading into the back country of
Northern Michigan to camp and fish. One
of the differences was that there were more workers here, each with their own
little aisle that they were in charge of, and a security man walking the
parking lot outside. I guess they also
had a couple of guards with metal detector wands they would wave over you when
you entered, so that you wouldn’t bring in your knives, but they said thank you
and smiled warmly when you left.
Brian Dellamater In The Grocery Store
At
this point we once again loaded ourselves into the two vans, while Brian and
Gabe drove the truck with some of the gear lashed to the back. The driving was almost indescribable. The vans have a governor in
them that prevent them from going over 80 km/hr (approx. 50 miles/hr), but it’s
the weaving and jostling for position that’s crazy in a city without traffic
lights. They make it work though, and
our two drivers, Nicholas and David, were excellent. In the ditches alongside of the road, were
deeply trenched tracks and paths with steep sides. Yet, if you needed to turn around before the
next street you took the ditch. I saw a
bus going across the ditch at an angle I couldn’t have deemed possible, but
somehow it did. Taxi transportation was
on the motorcycles which weaved like so many water bugs between the bigger
vehicles. Many were parked in packs in
the busier market places, like gangs, but were in actuality waiting for
customers. It was different, but
exciting; I was glad I was riding just so I could take it all in. Everything was happening on the opposite side
of the road from what I was used to; figuratively and literally.
Make Way!
We
headed south by southwest for the next three hours seeing the signs of
civilization slowly disappear except for the two other towns that we drove
through. Rock, plastic litter, bushes,
trees, flocks of sheep & goats, and herds of cows could be seen from the
windows of our van. People also dotted
the landscape. I wrote in my journal
about the previous day & took pictures as we drove.
One Of The Surrounding Towns South Of Nairobi, Kenya
Eventually
Brian passed us, and led us onto a rutted dirt track with the Black Hill and a
low mountain range on the horizon. We
bounced and weaved our way through the brush, passing herders with their
animals, and a couple of different dwellings.
We waved as we passed. Throughout
this entire ordeal, Anthony, riding alongside our driver Nicholas in the front,
patiently answered and explained any question I had for him. I learned a lot from his open and honest
conversation of the city, the people we saw, and the land; everything from
commerce to the intricacies and complexities of how a termite hill works.
Brian Leading The Way In On The Rugged Two Track
The Black Hill In The Distance
And
then we were there; Kijani Farm. The
square shed, that held some equipment and the water tank, was in the center of
the area, surrounded by the framing for the soon to be living residence, plus
the tent that Brian and Gabe had been living in. That was it.
We unloaded, and then were ushered over to the edge of the thorny walled
hedge where 8 to 10 Maasai men were cooking us a goat over an open fire to
celebrate our arrival. We cut up an
excellent blend of onions and tomatoes and all ate together. It was interesting listening to the
conversational dialogue. I tried
learning the names of the Maasai men, and did manage to remember Raphael,
Benson, and John. Their two wild dogs
roamed around the outside of our gathering.
(L to R Facing The Camera) John, Benson, and Raphael Kneeling Down
Gracious Hosts Cooking Us A Meal
A Gathering For The Special Feast
Yum!!
With
food now in our bellies, the Team weed wacked, shoveled and raked an area level
for our tents and set them up under cloudy skies that were beginning to
clear. We were still in shorts, a
T-shirt, and tennis shoes, but we changed into our boots and long pants as we
prepared for a walk around the border of the property (called the
“Shamba”). I brought along a water
bottle and my camera. The walk and views
were amazing. Brian Dellamater and
Raphael explained aspects of the land and the surrounding neighbors. I took pictures often. Everyone has their thing, I suppose, that
captures their heart. Mine is nature in
the form of plants and animals along with the scenery, lighting, and the
experience that surrounds it. I tried my
best to capture that with limited skills.
Herds of cattle, occasionally crisscrossing the landscape, could be
tracked by the sound of the bells that select ones in the herd wore. With his permission, I took a picture of
“Mospa,” the boy herding his cows on the property. I saw large birds with a strange call,
spiders that wove webs on the ground and hid in a carefully weaved hole for
another insect to happen chance upon its sticky platform. I saw zebras running away in the distance
beyond the wall of thorny branches that had been stacked along the property’s
border. It kept in the cattle, who were
allowed to browse in it, and some of the wilds out; other than gazelles that
could easily leap it. Everywhere were
cool shaped, thorny trees and bushes. We
returned in time from our walk to climb the building structure and watch the
sunset over the hills. It was only a
little after 6:00 p.m., but it was a sight to behold.
The House Frame
Todd
Thorns Are Everwhere!
Paul Fay and Raphael
Jake Rogers, Gabe Dellamater, and Nyles Bates
Members Of The Team At A Corner Of The Shamba
Zebras Running Off In The Distance
A Spider's Lair
A "White Bellied Go Away Bird" - That's Its Name!
Jospa And Some of His Herd
Raphael Waiting For Us To Catch Up
Flowers In The Red Soil
Termites Covered Sticks Laying On The Ground With These Tunnels
Termites At Work In A Mound
John Fay Checking Out A Termite Mound
Our Setting In The "Boma" (An Island Walled Off Within The Shamba)
At
dusk we got out the six chickens, that had been bought and kept within one side
of the outhouse, and let them out to scratch around in the dirt. I showed the others an old farm boy trick of
“hypnotizing” them by gently holding their beaks to the ground and tracing a
straight line out in front of them in the dirt.
They remain spellbound to that line for several minutes after you
release them. It worked perfectly on
several of the roosters, and the other members of the Team tried it. Lessons can be learned from both sides;
admittedly with different levels of importance.
Todd "Hypnotizing" One Of The Roosters
While
several members of our Team watched and partook of the meat that some of the
Maasai cooked from the head of the goat that had been butchered for the earlier
meal, John Fay and I set water to boil.
We added some leftover goat meat from lunch along with some
potato/cheddar rice packets that we had.
It was like a soup, and tasted good.
We cleaned up as members of the Team split up and either sat around the
campfire near the tents, or lamps up near the shed. It had been a long first day to reach Kijani
Farm, but a good day. I felt like my
body was quickly falling into the rhythms of this time zone. By that I meant the day and night; for beyond
that I had no idea what the specific time was, and frankly didn’t care. I had been given a gift; a small glimpse of
life on the flip side.
If
yesterday was a normal day of surreal and somewhat romanticized notions, today
was tough. Throughout our travels, it
was difficult to decide what was day or night.
Do we follow the internal clock that was telling us it was in the middle
of the night, or watch the rising sun?
Our
transatlantic flight had rocked. Todd
and I had two seats next to the south facing windows. As we left land and soared high above the
ocean, the darkness of the night fell upon us.
Ironically, those who sat on the north side of the plane saw a constant
sunset, as light shown up and over the top crest of Earth, while from our side
we could only see stars. After
journaling, I tried relaxing while listening to Dvorak’s Symphony #9 (“From The
New World”). It was fitting music. I fell asleep for about 15 to 20 minutes
towards the end of the composition. When
I stirred, I did watch one movie to pass the time.
Crossing
the British Isles, you could see the lights of cities and towns far below. As we began our decent into Amsterdam, a line
of freighters were heading from the channel into the North Sea. Being a farm boy, I also noticed first cutting
hay in some of the fields while we prepared to land.
In
Amsterdam we eventually met up with Noah Dellamater who came in on a later
flight; to complete our traveling team of nine.
We had a six hour layover there in the airport. I was so exhausted; I had to get up several
times to walk around. I wanted to close
my eyes but couldn’t find a comfortable place to lean against. Several other members of our Team did, by
simply laying down directly on the cement floor of the terminal. Finally it was time, and once we loaded onto
our plane, I quickly fell asleep as did many of the others. I vaguely remember having the sensation of
the plane taking off, but that was it. I
slept for about an hour before they delivered a meal. Todd and I were in the middle row between two
other Team members (Nyles Bates and Paul Fay). It was so tight that you had to keep your
arms in front of you and your knees together.
I decided that if I lifted my knees just six inches higher I would have
technically been in a prenatal position.
We had to mentally hold it together like that for almost eight hours. I occasionally shut my eyes in a driftless
stupor, and did watch a movie. Deep
breaths warded off panic throughout the tight quartered flight. Our steward was awesome though; helpful,
funny, and with a waxed, curly mustache that looked pretty cool.
After
landing in Nairobi, Kenya, we waited about 90 minutes in a hot line of people
crowded together until we could present our visas and passports. We got our bags and met up with Brian
Dellamater and his son Gabe who had arrived in Kenya the week before us to
prepare for our group. We loaded up
around 11:30 at night, and headed for “67 Airport Hotel.” The hotel was a breath of fresh air and had a
courtyard much like a fancier version of the dorms I lived in at college. We talked and made plans as a team. I sent some messages to my wife Cindy back in
the States, who was living in Sunday afternoon while we were in early
Monday. She transferred some money into
Todd’s account so we could use his bank card to get our currency in shillings
tomorrow. I couldn’t use my card as I
don’t know the PIN number. Back home I
don’t use it a lot, and when I do, I use it as a credit card so I don’t have to
use the PIN number. Ignorant bliss can
be crippling sometimes, but we figured out a solution while we could still
stand. Todd and I each showered and
went to bed around 1:00 a.m. I had slept
only a little over 6 hours since Friday morning. Under the light mosquito netting around my
bed, and in the coolness of the air, we slept like the dead; now on the flip
side.
See
you along The Way…
John Fay With An Unknown Friend
Between A Rock And A Hard Place
The Statistics
After Our Arrival To Kenya
Bus Ride To The Hotel With Jake Rogers Doing The Thinking
The "Team" traveling from Rockton, Illinois to Kenya
Saturday,
June 3rd, 2017
I’m
over the Gulf of St. Lawrence heading toward Canada’s province of
Newfoundland. It’s where the little
wooden boat in the story Paddle to the Sea last sees land, just before
being picked up off the coast of the Grand Banks by a French fishing boat. He had been on a long journey, floating from his humble
origin in the Great Lakes. I guess I’m
on a similar long journey. The top of
the clouds, illuminated by the sun, look like the slush and ice during spring
break-up on our rivers back home in Illinois.
I love those rivers. I love those
rivers and their lonesome bottomlands.
They’ve become my “next of kin” after the sugar maple, hemlock, and
white pine forests of my life-blood in Northern Michigan. I’m in new territory now though; farther from
my home than I’ve ever been. The journey
has just begun, however, as I travel to the flip side…of the planet. I like that analogy. It holds various depths of meaning.
As
I travel next to my son at 39,015 feet, ice crystals dot the windows. I’ve wondered what would happen if we went
down. I don’t think that way to be morbid;
it’s just where your thoughts go sometimes.
For the most part, I think like a survivalist though, and so my only
regret is that my flint and steel set, for making fires, is buried away in my “check
in bag” somewhere in the bowels of this plane.
Those two things are like my security blanket. If I have those, surely I could survive
anything. Fire is life, and I know fire.
We
go to Africa with an open heart. Our
souls are jars of clay; fragile, but with the capacity to hold more than we can
fathom (2 Corinthians 4:7). To that end
we travel to learn and travel to be taught.
We bring muscle and we bring smiles.
As we travel to Kijani Farm within Kenya, Africa to camp these next two
weeks, news has reached us that those who went before us had to shore up the
thorn hedge that surrounds some of the property. Apparently the zebras and wildebeests were
getting into the herd of cattle that a family from the Maasai tribe was keeping
there. Imagine that; should we be so
lucky to see such a thing. I don’t go to
romanticize the wilds, but still, the wild is something to fall in love with; God’s
creation unleashed and still yet raw. We’re
out over the Atlantic Ocean now. Onward
we go to the flip side.
See
you along The Way…
O'Hare Airport
Loading my orange bag I've had since 8th grade
The "Team" (Todd, Nyles and John) loading up
Todd and I heading to Detroit to catch the next flight
“Masculinity is bestowed. A boy
learns who he is and what he’s got from a man, or the company of men. He cannot learn it from any other place. He cannot learn it from other boys, and he
cannot learn it from the world of women.
The plan from the beginning of time was that his father would lay the
foundation for a young boy’s heart, and pass on to him that essential knowledge
and confidence in his strength.”
(John Eldredge – Wild at Heart)
This article comes from a fishing
trip I had with my Dad about eight years ago, on the morning of Wednesday, July
8th, 2009. I hand wrote it that
afternoon into a journal I used at the time.
About a year later I typed it up and submitted it to my friend Don
Miller, who printed it in the Severson Dells Newsletter entitled “Notes From
The Dells.” I had that article framed,
and presented it to my Dad on Father’s Day of 2010. The pictures that accompany this blog entry come
from a trip that he and I took together last summer on June 1st,
2016. It was a day trip into Wisconsin
at one of his favorite creeks (mine too).
We each caught a handful of trout and enjoyed both the beautiful scenery
and companionship. Enjoy!
See you along The Way…
Dad
Me
Dad
Me
I consider myself
fairly patient on most accounts; better than I used to be at any rate. I suppose age and experience evoke that
trait. It’s time in training well spent.
When
I first began fishing for trout it was hard to wait and be patient. It’s hard to wait for any kind of fishing for
that matter; especially when you are a kid.
As a kid I captured grasshoppers and crickets in an old wire mesh box
once used to ship us honey bees for our hives.
I waited eagerly for dad to get home to take me to Bass Lake. In those days I watched the red and white
bobber from the bow of the canoe.
Sometimes I would be surprised by a sudden and quick hit that would
immediately tug the bobber under, leaving only a trail of bubbles. Sometimes it was the slow turning of the
bobber as the colors changed from red to white and began to dance lightly up
and down on the surface of the water; the fish below playing with the
bait. During days when I fished a lot, I
dreamed about red and white bobbers. I
still remember the placement of the bed under the window, in the room on the
back of the cabin that we rented for a week during the month of June on South
Manistique Lake. I remember waking up in
that room to dreams of patriotic colored spheres of plastic bobbing on my line
while standing on the end of a long wooden dock.
Almost
to the day, a dozen years ago, I caught my first trout. As an adult at that time, I had begun to grow
in patience. I had to in order to keep
my head in the thick, bug infested swamp called the “Headwaters” that my dad
used to take me to. Since then I’ve
fished many a mile of creek, stream and river.
I’ve been able to experience many things as a result; things such as deep
water, shallow water, and sacred water.
I’ve seen big fish scoot out from under a bank while catching nothing
but minnow sized chubs. I’ve experienced
tangled line, lost lures and flies, broken reels, leaky waders, busted poles
and scenery worth dying in. Each outing
builds a layer of experiences, and as a result develops patience. Time in training is time well spent.
When
I approach a good hole or pool or run where it’s obvious trout habitat I take
my time, appreciate it for what it’s worth and pick my casts selectively. I marvel at the fish or marvel at the
excellent cast served on a silver platter and only occasionally curse the lost
opportunity of nothing. For I know deep
down that even nothing is something.
Today
I fished with dad on the “Creek who must not be named.” Whatever I think I have; whatever I think
I’ve gained, whether in pompous attitude or honest humility, I’ve got nothing
to his patience. I don’t mind leaving a
fine bend in a creek after a yeomen’s attempt at catching a trout. In the beginning years I didn’t mind because
I thought I’d have better luck at the next bend. Now I don’t mind moving on because I figure
the trout are there in hiding, and after “X” amount of casts they can stay
there to proliferate or be caught the next time.
My
dad, however, works the crowd like a good comedian. I’d say he works the crowd like a politician
but his efforts are more than “Good enough for government work,” and if you
don’t approach the tangled mess where wild trout live with at least a partial
grin, you’ll never make it out alive or with an ounce of wit. With that old blue pole he’ll flip his
spinner to land with an announcing plop.
I’ll hear the familiar click of his bail as he begins to reel. Those sounds are about as comforting as an
old flannel shirt on a cool fall day.
With patience he systematically breaks the whole into parts; casting at
different angles according to the current and branches and underwater
structure. Not perfect. Not without frustrations. It’s simply more patience or at least
different patience, because the results are often the same as mine.
I
fished today but I watched today too. I
realized in the end that this experience, like many others, was both a
continuation of my training in patience and time that was well spent.
