When her hockey tour to Scotland/South Africa was cancelled, I persuaded my friend Alison to join in my African adventure. I reassured her multiple times that the tour hyperlink was correct – yes, I know it’s not my usual style of travel, but really, I’m okay with camping, no really, I’ve already paid my deposit, I won’t back out, seriously, let’s do it. My charms finally beat her into submission.

In the month preceding the trip I had been enthusiastically (one might say compulsively) studying Swahili on line, so our Kenya Airways flight to Nairobi afforded the first bona fide opportunity to showcase my skills. I successfully conveyed “I drink water” and “I want chicken” to the flight staff, but I knew I still had a ways to go when I translated one of the signs on the plane as “toilets are animals”.

Baby elephant and rhino orphanage, Nairobi

Our African adventure began shortly after arriving at 5 am. Before we had even left the airport grounds, Ali and I saw zebras. Zebras! Right there on the side of the road.  As our tour didn’t officially begin until that evening, our driver offered to take us to Nairobi’s local animal shelters. We began with an orphanage for abandoned baby elephants, which would have been a lovely experience except for the two hundred other people who were there with us, and that we were positioned precisely between two guides who were talking simultaneously with different scripts. Disheartened by our “African Lion Safari” experience, we cautiously moved onto the next stop, the Giraffe Centre.

Giraffe hoping for food

The Giraffe Centre was an absolute delight.  Alison immediately fell in love, which I worried would result in her acquiring a staggering volume of giraffes in various forms and materials before she returned home.  It was a giraffe feeding sanctuary, which, by being on a raised platform, allowed immediate contact with these animals by way of giant giraffe tongues delicately copping food pellets from our lips.

We then had to decide if we should go to the Nairobi National Reserve: would it be another touristy disaster like the elephants, or transformative like the giraffes? Our hearts filled with dread when we entered the safari walk: it was a zoo.  A zoo with a twist, as it turned out.  Its residents had been rescued from the wild for various reasons, which meant that they were used to human contact. Unlike lions and leopards, who can never be kept into adulthood despite human raising, cheetahs adapt and bond with humans for the rest of their lives, a good thing given that we were taken right to a cheetah for petting.

Pet cat, African style

Like a massively overfed house cat, it snuggled and purred.  Yes, the zoo-not-a-zoo thing was confusing, but it gave us the chance to see animals we weren’t guaranteed to see in the wild, or at least not that closely.

Prior to meeting our fellow travellers, Ali and I had just enough time to squeeze in a drink.  Picture this: kicking back on a second floor patio, drinking chilled 500 ml bottles of Tusker beer, the sun setting gently behind the high rises, overhead a half moon encircled by birds. Now imagine the waiter coming to us with great concern because our bags were sitting on the table, not clutched by a death grip in our laps.  I’ll remind you this was a second floor patio, and we were the only ones on it. Nairobbery indeed.

There were nine of us in the group plus Jean-Luc, our French, Spain-based tour company representative who joined us on this trip’s maiden voyage. All Canadian (no Americans to blame), mostly from Toronto, and lovely: Jim and Merilee, retired from BC; Sherry and Emilio, the latter a firefighter (a fellow traveller who saves lives for a living!); Lilah, with her impressive bag of vitamins and weird superstitions, like single people shouldn’t sit at table corners; and Beth from Ottawa.  And then there was Darcy.  Darcy, who showed up late for our first-day animal sanctuary tours wearing a “Girls do it better and look better doing it” midriff t-shirt, fully equipped with digital camcorder, digital camera, I-Pod, and a complaint for nearly everything. This is someone who while in India ate at Pizza Hut every day.  We were genuinely puzzled by her purpose in Africa.

We had our first dinner together at a hopping restaurant, Kosewe. I had coconut fish, ugali (the national staple starch, like cream of wheat-flavoured polenta), and a green vegetable that tasted exactly like a tea bag. The atmosphere was enlivened by a Kenyan army high life band doing crowd favourites like La Bamba. I particularly liked eating the ugali which is broken off by (a Purell detoxed) hand then rolled into a ball for dipping into food.  Anyone who’s seen me eat a muffin knows that I’m comfortable with this technique.

During the day, in the heat of the day in fact, we agreed to rent bikes and ride to Hell’s Gate, one of the few National Parks you can ride or walk in unaccompanied by a ranger. I thought it was named Hell’s Gate because of the ride there, but it’s really called Hell’s Gate because of the ride back.

Fitting ten people with African bikes was no quick feat. For example, the back brakes didn’t work on the first bike I tried, and when Jean-Luc tried to fix it the brake handle broke off in his hand. With an improved second bike, off we went with 2 pm sun beating on our heads. The first part of the ride was fine, along a road lined with little children delightedly singing “how-ah-yoo? how-ah-yoo?” as we rode past. But then we turned right. We had to make our way one kilometre up a gradual incline on a road that was almost completely covered with settled dust. Have you ever tried to ride in sand? We were desperately grateful to reach the gate of Hell, and after paying our $15 entrance fee, rode into the park.

Bike ride to hell

All that hard work was worth it.  This was Africa of the animals. Look — there are zebras! What’s that leaping, a Thomson gazelle? Is that a mama warthog with her brood? Is that wildebeest in the distance? After riding a considerable distance (with Nanopod Girl plugged into her music the entire time), we came upon our next Outward Bound challenge: descending into the gorge. The gorge was beautiful, full of hot springs, and harrowing to navigate. As we delicately lowered ourselves over tricky rock formations trying not to tumble into the water below, nature’s treachery was exacerbated by Nanopod’s frequent shrieking of “Soaker!!! We’re gonna have a Soa-kah!!!!”  I was not amused, and was relieved that neither I nor anyone else became the “Soaker.”

It was alarmingly close to sundown by the time we got back on our bikes. But if beating the sun seemed daunting, we also had to contend with buffalo.  The animals in Hell’s Gate are generally people-friendly; however, buffalo can be crusty old codgers who aren’t afraid to throw their weight around.  And there were a lot of buffalo, materializing seemingly out of the dust.  We stuck together protectively each time we passed a group (the largest of which was 28 – I counted), buffaloes and humans eying each other warily.

We survived the park ungored and unscathed, and made it back to the bike rental place within minutes of complete darkness. It really was a wonderful day! So I was joking about it being hellish. Hell’s Gate is so called because of the sudden volcano eruption thousands of years ago that buried animals and humans alive in the area in which the park sits. We definitely got off easy.

As we drove through urban and rural landscapes, I couldn’t help but notice the proliferation of roadside hotels.  Absolutely horrifying roadside hotels. Buildings of barely-secured corrugated metal, six foot ceilings, windowless, erected on the dirt, but with imaginative and inspiring names, like the captivating “Starlight Hotel”, a vision in rusty blue. The question “who stays

Hotel, with amenities

there?” danced silently in my thoughts until someone mentioned that part of the reason HIV has spread so violently throughout this continent is because of the long-distance truck drivers – ah. Interestingly, hotels are often paired with butcher shops, a certain deterrent from doing a runner. My favourite was the “Oasis of Love Church and Hotel”.  Okay, I’m joking about the hotel part, but it does stir the imagination!

Needless to say we weren’t subjected to such questionable accommodation; however, our hotel stays were not without adventure. In Naivasha we were treated to a carbon monoxide “alarm clock” with buses parked directly outside our hotel room door. We could literally walk from our room straight into our bus – truly door-to-door service, no extra charge. In Nakuru we stayed at the Jamka Hotel which at first appeared okay, until I entered… the bathroom. The door was taken from an old barn, probably. It locked from the outside but didn’t close properly from the inside. The toilet had no seat. I have faced such naked commodes in public restrooms, but so far not in hotel rooms.  The toilet paper was placed level with the top of my head, so unless I planned ahead it was an athletic experience. Then there was the shower head.  When I initially noticed it I thought, that doesn’t look so good. My fears were confirmed when Jim from BC, an electrician, gave us a detailed order of operations for having a shower.

“First, turn on the shower. Then go outside the bathroom and turn on the heating switch. When you’re finished, go outside the bathroom and turn off the switch. Then you can turn off the water.  But whatever you do, don’t touch the fixture while showering!”

But the best part was the sink. Upon washing my hands I noticed water on the floor and assumed oh, the sink is leaking.  When it started running across the floor to the drain in the opposite corner I discovered, oh my, there was no connection at the bottom of the sink drain. Like a downspout, water poured freely out of the sink. Apart from the bathroom, the final touch was the mosquito nets.  No matter what we tried (and we tried, with hair elastics, brute force, you name it), they did not cover the bed. Ali brilliantly improvised by securing the net over the window.

Kenyan plumbing

Shopping

woman sitting outside with a green phone and calculator.  A vendor selling what were clearly goods scavenged from the garbage. Another guy with a gorgeous display of eloquently sliced vegetables on a board, for what purpose I did not know.

When Ali and I were later approached by a sketchy looking character, we ducked into a clothing shop.  It was dark, floor to ceiling clothes, filled with about ten women, each of whom had their own four-foot wide section.  A couple of shirts caught our eye, so before you could say how-ah-yoo Ali and I were in the back change room/broom closet, trying on Ugandan blouses while the proprietor, Ann, looked on happily.  When our transaction was complete I asked if we could take a picture, after which I asked Ann if she had an e-mail address. “No, but I have a phone number!” she eagerly replied. I explained that it would probably be a challenge to e-mail her the photo under the circumstances, and although most working Kenyans seem to have cell phones, I thought the prospect of a fax machine unlikely.  We then entered a second shop and were greeted by another woman named Ann who was wearing none other than a Toronto Maple Leafs t-shirt! The Leafs, official team of the Global Village.

Leafs nation

We continued wandering through this buoyant town until we grabbed the African equivalent of a tuk-tuk (three-wheel taxi) back to Jamka’s. You can imagine our delight when we were told that we’d be moving hotels the next morning!  Although I was disappointed not to try the shower of death, I happily took an antihistamine for my now-confirmed dust allergy, wrestled with the mosquito net and went to bed.

Dressed like the Crocodile Hunter, I ventured into the “land of animals that may cause me serious pain if I’m not in a car” Africa. We went to Lake Nakuru National Park, a 1500 km square protected reserve which is Kenya’s second-most popular wildlife destination after the Masai Mara. It was fabulous!!  We saw buffalo, waterbuck, impala, flamingo, gazelle, baboon, giraffe, zebra, eagles, pelicans, warthogs, white rhinos, eland (large antelope), and oryx, to drop a few names. The flamingos were especially spectacular.  Nakuru is a soda lake, full of minerals, and draws literally millions of flamingos to its shores, like big purring undulating ribbons. Every time we tried to get closer to take pictures they would, as one unit, back up at the same pace, thereby keeping an equal distance between us regardless of our position. I liked the noise, too — like a giant humming engine. We also had the pleasure of seeing, and smelling, a dead waterbuck and its

Revenge of the lawn ornaments

surrounding flies.  Open windows were frantically slammed shut as the smell clawed its way up our nostrils.  Imagine if there had been vultures — they defend against predators by throwing up on attackers. Therefore I suppose it was better to experience the painfully potent pungency of the waterbuck than violent vociferous vivid vulture vomit (this is how Sherry and I entertained ourselves on the bus, much to the discomfort of Alison and Emilio.)

We picnicked, with guess who thinking it was a good idea to feed the hyrax – yep, Nanopod.  Her tomato tossing attracted an agama, a beautiful lizard with an orange head and blue body.

Nanopod helpfully feeds the wildlife

After lunch we went to yet another pool (!) which Nano greeted with a hearty “now that’s my kind of Africa!”  My absolutely favourite part of the day was the drive back through the park.  By this time we were all fairly jaded (ho hum, another baboon, yawn), so everyone was relaxing, not paying much heed to the surroundings. Outside my window, in the dimming light of day, with the lake and millions of pink flamingos forming a backdrop, I saw the animals of the park gathering to graze on the plains by the water. Rhinos munching next to buffalo, gazelle lightly running in between zebra. Animals just doing what they do.

It was magnificent.

Later that night we had an authentic African nightclub experience at a place called Lule’s. Imagine a human-scaled airplane hangar meets train car in wood, bamboo and tin, dark with red lightbulbs and a disco ball.  Add to that the ubiquitous television, playing Rescue 911 – somehow Bill Shatner was right at home. The music was amazing, featuring a young band of drummers who really kicked it.  Nothing like sitting back with a cold Tusker and soaking it in.  Naturally the requisite drunk guy was there, a gentleman with a half-untucked shirt, spectacularly arranged teeth, and a thing for Lilah. Lucky her!

Our group was very disciplined. Each morning we were ready at the pre-arranged time (our six-minute frenzy was a good demonstration), and yet it always took the bus and guides a while to get going for reasons unknown.  The morning after the night club we were hanging by the bus when a couple of guys with “Learn Swahili” books tried to sell to Nanopod.  When she wasn’t buying, one guy said “Hakuna matata” (no problem) while the other said “Hakuna matiti.” When it was obvious Nano didn’t know what that meant, they lectured that if she bought the book she would know. So when our Kenyan guides returned, she asked “What does hakuna matiti mean?”  Surprised and delighted, they asked where she heard that, then explained it meant “no tits.”  While the rest of us laughed uproariously, Nano petulantly said, “I’d like to find those guys again and tell them Hakuna Ma-Dick-i!” We laughed even harder.

On our way to Lake Bogoria we passed the equator, which is suprisingly narrow. At the lake we saw impressive termite nests, dik diks, and ostrich.  The lake also has hot springs in which Ken successfully boiled eggs.

Lake Bogoria, perfect for boiling eggs

We then made our way to Lake Baringo

Lake Baringo fisherman

where we (those of us not at the pool — guess who) had a boat cruise where we saw hippos, birds and more birds. That night we stayed at the fabulous Roberts Campsite, which in the morning was an African wonderland of bird songs, a purple sunrise, and hippo grunts.  Of course, in the midst of all this raw beauty I woke up dreaming that I had precisely 8,453 unread e-mails and a cooking demonstration by Jamie Kennedy waiting for me at work.

We had some bus troubles the next morning, so we were directed to the reptile farm.  Lots of snakes I didn’t care to meet without glass separation. It wasn’t that interesting, but luckily for us there was a restaurant “recommanded by Loney Planet” if we were really stuck.  We got the bus started, but unfortunately the bus problems were an omen for the rest of the day — a grueling eight-hour ride.  But it was worth it because we had the beautiful Kakamega rainforest to greet us at the end, right? Wrong. After getting somewhat lost we finally made it; by this time a few of my travel mates were starting to desperately give the subtle, top-secret sign of bladder distress (waving one’s hands energetically at the wrists just above shoulder height). Merilee, Lilah and Beth bravely ventured forth to the Kakamega restroom, Lilah and Beth appointing Merilee as the canary. Merilee is no softy — she and Jim were on the first leg of their eight-week African experience, and they were not afraid to rough it, evidenced by stories of their outdoor adventures.  I will spare the details, but suffice to say that Merilee returned from the facilities very distressed, insisting that Jean-Luc see the “bathroom” before camping down for the night. We left immediately.

But that presented another problem.  We had an hour left of sunlight and limited alternatives.  I’ll remind you that we were the very first group to take this trip.  We tried the Happy Clapper Christian Retreat, but they had no room.  Fortunately we had The Bible — Lonely Planet Kenya. In a race against time, we drove through deep Kenya where the locals regarded us with a combination of shock, disbelief, and utter bafflement.  This is not a place where “mzungu” (white folk) travel. Emilio and Sherry began taking bets on who would have the first meltdown. Finally, with fifteen minutes of sunlight to spare we rolled into Jaminda’s Paradise Small World Hotel. It was passable, but Ali and I had a bit of a rude shock when we surveyed the bathroom — let’s just say Kenya’s Public Health Authority’s message seemed to be getting through.  We slept on the beds in our sleeping bags.

Lake Baringo resident

With all due respect to ornithologists, bird watching is really dull. And it hurts the neck.  Add to that a pair of binoculars that I couldn’t get to work properly, and a less-than-blistering pace, and…. yawn. I amused myself by watching Jean-Luc’s face gradually atrophy with boredom, a slight trickle of drool running from the corner of his mouth. We did see a bunch of red and blue touraco, apparently an unusual sighting. I guess that was supposed to be exciting. In the background at one point we could hear a hum of bees.  Our guide advised that they had tiny bees, the size of ants. “Do they sting?” I asked. “Yes, they sting,” she replied cheerfully and matter-of-factly. Wonderful. But all this complaining was worth it in the end with the monkeys. It was amazing how much noise they make as they crashed through the forest. I got within one metre of a blue monkey – that was cool.  And I didn’t get swarmed by minute evil pain-inducing bees. That was more cool.

Roadside Kenya

Defying the laws of physics

After the excitement of Kakamega we had another challenging drive to Kisumu, Kenya’s third-largest city, on the banks of Lake Victoria.  To find a camping option The Bible pointed us to the Kisumu Beach Resort, which sounded promising but was summed up rather succinctly by Merilee who said, under her breath in the bathroom, “gross”.  It really wasn’t that bad — I think Merilee was just expressing the trip’s recent challenges.  We managed to squeeze in some laundering, but I was not amused to find that one of the many dogs in the vicinity had run off my sock which I then had to re-wash. Gross. That night after dinner Ali, Sherry, Lilah, Merilee and I washed and dried dishes (which is done by waving with one’s arms until they dry), and it felt very African, the women gathering, talking while doing the chores.  If nothing else, one of the greatest parts of this trip was the degree of interaction not only between the mzungu and the Kenyans, but between the travellers.  Hours and hours of talking and we never ran out of conversation!

In a tent you can hear everything. Shortly after retiring I heard this incredible ruckus coming from chez Jim and Merilee.  I finally asked, “What the hell is going on with you two?” It was their first time using their air mattresses, and they were not able to lie on them without sliding off. “Why don’t you try re-inflating them?” I heard Jim mutter to Merilee. The more this continued the more I laughed until I worried that I was becoming hysterical (like I did on the Screaming Demon ride at the Docks.) I had to distract myself with other focuses, so I asked Ali, “Is this the hottest we’ve been so far?” “Yes,” she replied matter-of-factly and not so cheerfully.  It didn’t look like I was going to get a lot of use out of my thermal long underwear. Then I heard thunder and flashes of distant lightning brightened the tent. “Ali, is it raining?” I asked.  “Amy, you will know if it’s raining, I promise,” my exasperated tentmate replied. The next morning: “Ali, are you awake? What’s that noise?”  “You mean the screaming monkeys?” “No, the humming that sounds like killer bees,” I replied as I quickly poked my head out of the tent. Luckily there were no bees within visual range, killer or otherwise, which is good because surely they would have devoured my head.

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• Report on pesticide fishing in Lake Victoria (baraza.wildlifedirect.org)

Curious kids checkin' the mzungu

Market day

were shoes and clothing, clothing which comes over from North America in bulk.  If you ever wondered where bridesmaid dresses go, I have found their afterlife. After the market the Club lived up to its billing, and godammit I did not feel guilty about the pool. Well, a little guilty, but this was assuaged by the uplifting feeling of being clean.  We finished our time there with some Tusker beer and and happily returned to the camp site.

Driving in Kenya was usually quite riveting.  Sure, there were colossal bumps in the road that for the most part our superb driver, Sambau, avoided with great skill, but the dust and roughness were compensated by the diverse countryside, many peoples and imaginative use of English. Every school had a motto, such as Scaling New Heights, In God We Trust Knowledge is Power, Labour to

Why Kenyans are such good runners?

Success – I was continually inspired, as I was charmed by business names like “Dirtfoe Laundry.” But even more unique was the way unusual industries were combined. My favourite was the sporting goods and laboratory equipment shop, explaining why Kenyans are such fast runners, hmmm.

The road to Homa Bay was arduous and included a visit to a Japanese dam project. I didn’t know why. As we continued our travels it became clear that as fascinated as we were by the animals and peoples of Kenya, it didn’t compare to the level of interest we generated driving through rural Western Kenya. Not a single child, woman or man failed to stare as we drove past.  Happily they were responsive to our waves and for the most part broke into enthusiastic, sunshiney smiles.

Once we settled into the Hotel Hippo Buck in Homa Bay (after lunching at the Red Rose restaurant where I had to walk gingerly past an angrily boiling pot of french fries, highly stressful for a klutz like me), we went to Lake Victoria to visit the fishing village. This is when we closed the door to Kansas and entered Kenya, and started to learn how unfair and wondrous the world is.

We wandered into a co-operative fish processing open-air “plant”, overseen by the Shauriyako Fishmongers Self-Help Organization. At first it looked like the community’s bountiful catch was being smoked communally, but then we really

Harvesting fish garbage

Would you eat this?

saw the fish.  They were ostensibly skeletons, with remnants of flesh hopefully clinging by the roots – waste by-product of the fish factory next door. Rather than give away this aqua crap, the fish plant next door sells it to the fishmongers and has doubled the price within the last year. Membership in the Organization provides a collective voice for the smoked fish skeleton sellers, as well as orphan support.  Currently there are 51 children, mostly orphaned by AIDS, age two to eighteen. Needless to say we took up a collection; it wasn’t much, at least not by our standards, but you do what you can, and they weren’t expecting it.  We were only starting to learn that around every corner in Kenya there’s a worthwhile cause.

Orphans

En route to our homestay we visited the Magina (does not rhyme with a body part) Village Primary School, the very school attended by Oti, the dazzling

Dazzling Oti

young Luo owner of the local tour group used by our Canadian company.  Imagine — 500 children from nursery to grade eight and 13 teachers housed in semi-permanent structures made of mud and tin with no library, no electricity, and one pit latrine. The nursery class, for example, holds 70 children and three teachers in a cramped, hot room.  Now imagine ten seats lined up in a row, like thrones under a tree, filled with wide-eyed mzungu, and hundreds of children emptying out of their classes to greet us – wow. Then the children began to perform for us. First came the girls who sang a song complete with “leeleeleelee” sound effects and gentle Luo dancing. Then came the boys.  A young thespian came charging out of the group and quite menacingly pointed his spear directly at me, making threatening Luo noises. I threw up my hands and cowered in fear, much to the audible delight of 500 children.  Afterwards we presented our gifts to the school.  Jim and Merilee’s soccer ball was very well received!  Even better received was the instant gratification of digital photography — something no one in this part of Kenya had evidently seen.  As we toured the school, I noticed Ali was missing. Looking behind me I saw a swarm of children encircling a spec of red hair in a green hat — like a candle in a chocolate cake. Occasionally she’d come up for air before being swallowed again.  When it was time to leave I threw her a life preserver and towed her in.

Gifts for the Magina Village School

Welcome performance

Inside the classroom

Magina school

After the school visit we went to what would be our home for the next two days: the household compound of Oti’s father, “Big Daddy”, where our immersion into Luo life began. We would be hosted by Oti’s mother, a teacher at the school and Big Daddy’s first wife, and Janet, the second wife, the Small Wife. To the

Big Daddy

right of Big Wife’s house was the kitchen quarters; it was a bloody inferno in there. The blackened tin ceiling spoke to that. Beyond that was something of which they were very proud: the brand new latrines they had built for us just before arriving.  We were thrilled!

New latrine!

While getting settled we were served a delicious chinese noodle-type snack made from oranges and sweet potato, as well as the best ground nuts (peanuts) I’ve ever had. We were visited by the curious neighbour, an older women whose only word of English was “Hallelujah.”  When Hallelujah came to greet me I

Hallelujah

said “Shikamoo“, which is the respectful greeting in Swahili for an elder.  She was thrilled, regarding me like a long-lost friend, grabbing my hands and excitedly bleating on and on in Luo and looking at me for responses.  Deciding actions would be more effective, I took out my camera and took a picture of her, and what excitement when I showed her! I then had her take one of me, and then I one of us together.  My new BFF, Hallelujah.

Zacheus, another neighbour, took us on the tour of the village, showing us how the less affluent Luo lived. The typical dwelling was a one-room hut with a divider in the middle – living room/kitchen/dining room/storage/chicken coop on the right, and bedroom/stove on the left.  The latter was very, very dark, and usually crowded with the family’s meagre belongings. Zacheus took us to his own home, and with his beautiful smile and gentle manner, proudly introduced us to his young wife and eight-month old daughter. As they emerged from the dark we could hear a wheezing, laboured sound.  As Zacheus reached for his daughter from his wife’s arms, he said simply with a soft voice, “This is my daughter. She is sick.”  And then we saw her.  The child’s head was swollen like an overripe cantaloupe, her tiny features pinched together in an unnatural excess of skin. I saw a father, desperately in love with his only child, a child who, if born in Ontario, would not be in this situation, a child who would have been operated on and covered by OHIP, but not in Africa, because here fathers have children who get sick and die, because that’s life in Africa. I had to quickly excuse myself from the home.

Nanopod and Ali took to the field to play net ball, so the rest of us (and many, many children) stood along the lines. Seeing this, Emilio said jokingly, “we should do the wave.” “Great idea!” I agreed enthusiastically, and much to his horror engaged him and Sherry into helping me teach the Kenyan kids the sporting fan’s rite of passage. Picture 100 school children in a line with two mzungu in 32C+ cloudless sunshine. Now add to that me running sprints back and forth along the line, arms flapping up and down in demonstration, cheering my head off, hunched over with my backpack looking like an over-excited, spastic, crazed camel. The kids loved it, but after about thirty sprints Emilio and Sherry became alarmed by my complexion and suggested I slow down.

Finally I got the kids to sing the song I’d heard earlier in Luo. The lyrics, “suna kayo ngeya, suna gi maugo“, sung as a call and response, mean a mosquito bites my back, a mosquito and tsetse fly. At the time I didn’t have the benefit of the translation, let alone a written transcription, so my attempts at Luo (that, and my singing) were greeted with uproarious hilarity. But eventually I could fake it passably, and like the Pied Piper led a gaggle of gigglers around the pitch singing my Luo heart out. Their appetite was insatiable. Recalling the ghosts of New Orleans past I belted out When the Saints Go Marching In, and it was one of the most beautiful renditions I’ve ever heard, my singing aside, of course.  They kept repeating the “Oh When the Saints” part of the song and I went through it, which worked magically. I took the saints right up to Merilee where I pleaded for her help — I was out of songs. Lovely Merilee broke into I’ve Been Working on the Railroad, which we ended with an Eddie Van Halen-worthy electric air banjo finale.

Unsurprisingly, seeing us mzungu (well, this mzungu at least) shed all vestiges of self respect, the kids began to lose their inhibitions. First I felt some of the bolder children gently tugging my ponytail (crunch crunch), and then they began to touch my skin.  Soon everyone wanted to shake my hand. I started jokingly pretending to grab their heads; before you knew it the children were screaming with glee as I chased them with my claws. Ali, meanwhile, was explaining to her net ballers the utterly foreign concept of “sunburn.” Why are you a different colour than the others? my celtic friend was asked by children and adults alike. When it was time to go we left the field singing the mosquito song.

That night we enjoyed an authentic African dinner of nyama choma (bbq’d meat), brown ugali, kale, shredded tea bag, and for the vegetarians, a whole chicken, avec beak and legs. I was naively hoping we’d have a demonstration of Luo traditional costume, song and dance, and we did… sort of.  Oti put in a DVD so I got to watch it on television. We had a more interactive opportunity to learn about Luo culture with Big Daddy, and luckily Lilah had lots of questions because the rest of us were expending our energy just to stay awake.