Leaving Bissil

Click to enlarge... Giraffe

We were supposed to go to Kilimanjaro, but hadn't made it there. Leaving Bissil, I look out, over the plains to where Papa Samson had told me it was. On a clear day, early in the morning, we could have seen it. I had a certain longing to see it, step foot on it, stand at the base, in awe.

Kilimanjaro is the tallest mountain in Africa and even more interestingly, is free standing.

Like it's saying, "no other mountain can compare, so I stand alone."

It also has snow at the top. "Big deal" you may say, but it is not far south of the Equator.

So, I would have stood in awe.

Instead, I stare at the open space where I know it should be.

I will it to appear, but it doesn't oblige.

"Next time", I think.

I watch as the land whizzes by. I wonder how the transition back to green will feel for me.

There is a certain amount of relief, knowing that in a few hours I can take a warm shower and change into clean clothes. I think about the parasites in the sand and fight the urge to scratch my skin off. Regardless, I feel like I am leaving myself behind. I feel grief.

The car is extraordinarily quiet, Wanda, asleep in the back... Leon too, I think.

I ask Barnabas about his job as a Safari driver. What is the most exciting thing he has seen.

He tells us a story about a lion and a water buffalo.

"We came upon a lion and buffalo fighting." (Picture this with a wonderful African accent...)

"We could not tell who was winning. They are both so strong.

The lion's pride was standing off to the side, the other male lions watching, waiting."

"Did they not help him out of respect?" I ask.

"Yes. It is how it is. He must fight his own fight.

The buffalo stabbed the lion with his horn.

Right before the lion died, he let out the loudest, strangest sound.

It was a terrible cry. I have never heard a sound like this before.

At that moment, all the other male lions came in and killed the buffalo, the dead lion,

still on his horn. Then they let out a roar and walked away."

"Barnabas, they didn't eat the buffalo?"

"No."

"Barnabas?"

"yes"

"Are there lions out there?"

"Yes, somewhere."

I look out at the open plains. The grass is growing here. It stretches toward the sky, swaying to the rhythm of the wind. I can imagine the lions out there. Lazily napping under the Acacia trees, the grass, blending their manes into the background.

We are brought to Rachel's school, The Serare School, for lunch and are fed like kings and queens. Pastor Joshua sees my sashes from Pastor Simon and Margaret and says, "You are highly decorated. This is the highest decoration you can get as a Maasai warrior."

I caress my beads, wondering again how I got here.

The school girls dance and sing for us. They teach us some of their moves and laugh with us at how awkward we are. They wear clean uniforms and have freshly braided hair. These are the more fortunate children that have parents with "good jobs". The contrast between them and the children we just left behind, is painful.

Rachel informs us that we will "rest" and have tea at her small house. We arrive to a spread of food that would feed us for a week. This is tea.

Rachel's son and daughter are there. Her daughter works for one of the television stations

in Nairobi. She studied in Australia. Her accent, crossed between African and Australian, is unique and stunning. It matches her beauty.

Her son, Thuo Peter, is finishing what I believe to be his masters degree.

He pulls me outside to talk. I excuse myself and ask if I can first try my family again.

I have tried many times, with no success.

I reach my mom and start to sob uncontrollably. She starts to question if I am okay and I can barely mutter, "yes".

I try to explain my anguish, but thousands of miles from home, it just fills my parents with worry. My father picks up the line and I ask,

"Will you come with me and save them? Dad? Tell me you will come back with me. It is so dry."

The line goes dead.

I still have only reached my husband for a second and have been unable to speak to my children.

Thuo Peter misunderstands my tears. He thinks I dislike Africa and want to go home.

I am too tired to explain that it is the opposite.

He speaks to me for close to an hour about science, chemistry, physics...

I smile and nod, absorbing nothing that he says.

Then, as we are about to go he says,

"Americans come here and try to educate about HIV/AIDS. They do not understand.

As long as there is poverty here, there will be AIDS.

You see, you have a woman with children.

She has no job, no money, no husband.

She can look at HIV/AIDS and say, "I could die of that in 7 or 8 years, or, I could die next week because I have no food. My children will also die, from starvation."

So, she takes the risk, and sells herself to buy food for her and her children.

As long as we have poverty, we will have this deadly disease."

Thuo Peter and his mom, Rachel