Kenya

I was "disembarking" the plane. I had just come from Amsterdam to Detroit. Second leg of the nearly 30 hour trip back home, done.

As I walk up the ramp, the woman in front of me turns and looks at me. She keeps walking. Then she turns again and says, "Ahhh. You are from Kenya." I look at her.

"what?"

"You are from Kenya. Kenyan?"

"what?"

My brain is so fuzzy. Surely this woman who, from her accent, is African, didn't just tell me I was Kenyan. Let me put this in perspective. The ENTIRE time I was in Kenya, (minus the airport) I saw maybe 10 white people. Maybe. So, for me to BE Kenyan. Like I said...

"what?"

I looked at her and said, "no.... I just traveled from Kenya... I am only Kenyan in my heart."

She stopped and looked more closely.... then with a smile and a nod of understanding, she turned and disappeared in the crowd.

So, I am Kenyan.

Here is where it began....

We landed in Nairobi and were herded out to customs. It was an insane, hot mess of people, all desperate to get out into the cool night air. We had flown in on a Boeing 747/400, the gargantuan double decker, seating over 400 people. It was stuffed to capacity. The noise level was beyond my ability to cope with after traveling without sleep. We were pulled from one line to the next and back again. Finally, Eilene was whisked through customs in a wheelchair. She had been smart enough to need one. I contemplated how I could need one too. Eventually, the porter who had brought Eilene through, came back for each of us and pulled us through ahead of everyone. I wanted to feel bad, but frankly, was thankful. The customs agent didn't even look up, didn't ask me one question. I stood about 8 feet from her desk. She stamped my visa, threw my passport on the counter and waved me through. Never even confirmed that I was the owner of this passport.

We find luggage quickly, as it has taken nearly 2 hours to get through customs. Wanda is so exhausted she walks right past the luggage checkpoint and out the door. They chase after her and say they need to check our bags. The agents take Wanda and Leon's passport and ask why we are there. I am waving my passport asking if they want to see. He looks at me as Wanda says, "we are missionaries." He hands her back the passport, looks back at me and says, "Go." And waves us through. He never even touches my passport and doesn't look through our bags.

This was a huge relief. We had all brought suitcases full of gifts for the children. If they had opened our bags, they would have either confiscated them or bribed us.

We walk through the door. Kenya. We made it.

We see the sign for us and head to meet our escorts, Rachael, Samson and Michael. Hugs and kisses, the Kenyans do the cheek to cheek thing like they do in Europe, but without the kissy noise. We are whisked off to the cars. I ride, by myself, with Samson and Rachael. Samson is Maasai and very quiet. Rachael is the principal of a school and commentates on different landmarks as we go. I feel like I am on a boat, dizzy with exhaustion, everything around me is spinning, or in motion. I look up to see an elephant in the middle of the road and grab my seat. Then I realize it is a statue. I wonder if they notice my stupidity. I look over at Samson and feel a tenderness for him. I know I will love this man deeply. I say, "you are my bodyguard Samson. Right?" He laughs quietly. "Yes."

We arrive at the house we are staying in. (pictures above) It is in a gated community, with armed guards and security at every house. I feel safe. The gates are opened and even in the dark I see that this is a grand house by Kenyan standards. I find out later that the woman, Eda, who owns the house, was married to (he died almost 30 years ago) Peter Koinange, the Minister of State, to the first Kenyan president, Jomo Kenyatta. Koinange was also a freedom fighter and went to prison for 7 years. There is a street named after him in downtown Nairobi.

We were staying in the house of a historical figure in Kenya's history. Cool.

We arrive in the guest quarters and are pleased to find running water, hot showers, flushing toilets and private rooms for each of us. There is a spread of food that nobody has any business eating at 10:00pm, but the food on the plane was horrendous, so we devour all the yummies.

Someone flips on the tv in the other room and the four of us look at each other.

We hear music.

"Is that Michael Jackson?"

We all laugh. Thousands of miles away from home, Michael Jackson's funeral plays out before us, live. Crazy.

I have decided to blog in increments, since I am incapable of keeping it "short". Part 2 to follow soon.