Kenya is Calling Me: Dry wells and riverbeds

We arrive outside of Bissil, in early afternoon. Dazed, we are shown our rooms in the cabin-like duplexes. They are sufficient in size, and again, we are thankful for almost flushing toilets. This is considered a resort location. I am thankful to not be sleeping in a tent and I'll leave it at that.

Lunch of pancakes, rice and stew (of which variety I didn't ask, but likely goat), was served in a mess hall type setting.

I listen to the mumblings of conversation, but am distracted by this burden that has now begun to burn in my chest. I can feel it bubbling and rolling and I try to stuff it back into the recesses of my mind. It is not MY burden. What am I supposed to do? I am just one girl. One girl desperate to help these people. I start to sob at the table. Not the kind that you can hide by turning your head. The suffocating kind. Gulping for air, stomach wrenching, hiccuping kind of sobbing. I cover my face, trying to hide from the stares of my new African friends. They think they have offended me. That I am unhappy. I can see it on their faces.

Wanda jumps up and pulls me outside.

"what happened sweetie?"

I just shake my head. I try to force the words out, but can only shake my head.

"you miss your family?"

"that's..... not..... it...."

I hiccup my way through an explanation of my burden. I tell her that I just didn't know. How I have had water on my mind for so long, but I didn't know that Maasailand was in drought. About how I knew why I was there.

Is it possible to be burdened and blessed simultaneously?

My whole life, Africa has sizzled in my veins. I was standing in the land that my heart had desired for so long, and it was in distress.

People seem to appear out of nowhere. They walk past me, curious about the sobbing American. One in particular catches my eye as she bends her head in respect for Samson.

He touches her forehead and smiles. They have great respect for each other. I am curious about the bowing. Is it an inside joke? A custom?

She looks at me as she raises her head. We have a kindred moment. She seems to understand me with one glance. I love her already.

I later find out her name is Margaret. She is 35 and like me, has all daughters, 4 of them.

Nelly introduces us to her "son", Joseph. He is going to be our interpreter. Joseph looks to be about 17 or 18 so I ask how old he is. "26 or 27" is his response. Africans, generally, seem to age extraordinarily well and apparently, they don't all know exactly how old they are.

Nelly whisks us off with Joseph to show us the foundation of the church they are building, and the town wells.

Leon confronting an anthill on the church's foundation.

I look out over what is supposed to be a church. It is just ground that has been cleared and a strange series of supporting walls, buried in the earth. Leon gets distracted by the large anthill looming in the background, he is fascinated by safari ants and is hoping this is one of their hills. Nelly explains how the ants eat entire trees and are similar to termites, but are not the infamous safari variety. (thankfully since the hill is taller than Leon, Wanda and I have visions of him being dragged, buried and easily devoured in such a large hill)

Some of the local children have been following us and get excited when I raise my camera. We walk around snapping pictures of them, slipping them dollar bills when Nelly isn't looking. Barnabas glares at them from the inside of our truck, they scream and go running. He laughs, proud that he has sent them running. I think of the times my brother, Chris would play the same game and how terrified I would be, but would always come back for more. These children are no different.

Barnabas navigates through the streets of Bissil, past the livestock market, the biggest in southern Kenya. It is here where Joseph tells me how delicious goat meat is. "It's sweet. SO good. I LOVE goat." I try not to gag openly, but find it hard. Something about the reference of "sweet" meat, along with the word, goat... it just leaves me a wee queasy.

We bump along the makeshift road and pull up to the riverbed.

The "river"bed.

I see the cutout in the land. The erosion. The roots of the trees that rest precariously on the banks of the river. I see the rock bed bottom. It is etched permanently from the flow of the water. I can just make it out beneath the layers of sand.

View over the riverbed

Trees on opposing banks.... and monkey

I stand, taking it all in. I try to imagine this land as wet, green... alive. I close my eyes and listen for the sounds of rushing water. I yearn to see birds flitting around, splashing their wings playfully in the river. Instead, I see miles and miles of sand. And monkeys. There are 20 or more monkeys chasing us from their treetop playground. We try to snap pictures, but they pretend to be shy and conveniently leap out of shooting range right as we press our shutters.

Joseph leads us down a steep path to show us the only well that still has water. He explains how the collection process works. The Maasai gather water from the well with buckets and ropes and then dump it into the trough that has been carved along the side of the path. He tells us that if they fall in, they drown because there is no way out, the sides are too steep. I look over the edge and Joseph warns me not to fall. I look at him and say,

"Joseph, I know how to swim.".

Frankly, I am more concerned about what is in the water. It is a deep green/blue color with various things floating on top. Monkeys hanging out over us, I wonder how often they poo in the well. Joseph tells me that the well belongs to the Maasai and nobody else is allowed to use it. He proceeds to explain how wonderful the water is.

"It is VERY good for you and tastes wonderful. It's very, very good."

I stifle my response.