Tembea Na Mimi

60th Anniversary Special Edition

On September 21, 1963, Hugh Downey stepped out of his US Army post in Eritrea and began a journey serving the people in Africa. For 60 years Lalmba has continued helping the poor and destitute, those forgotten at the “the end of the road”, achieve a better life.
Celebrations for the 60th anniversary have been held in Kenya and Ethiopia. This month we are celebrating in the US. Yet we are constantly reminded there is still suffering and poverty. Lalmba’s journey continues.

Meet Mekdes

By Joan Marques

Lalmba’s 60th celebration at the Chiri Children’s home had just ended with joyful screams of children scrambling after candy falling from a piñata. As the guests were leaving, Aselefich, our RCAR Program Director, received word from the local department of social services that a newborn baby girl had been brought to the nearby government health center. Her mother had tragically died from malaria less than a week after giving birth and her father was not capable of caring for his daughter. Aselefich, Atinafu, Lalmba’s Country Director, and Minalush, Outreach Assistant, quickly drove to the health center where they found a young man, with tears in his eyes, holding an infant. An infant named Mekdes.

It is no small task taking in an infant and our staff fully understands the responsibility. Working with the head of the local social services, our staff learned more about the situation. The young couple was from a distant part of Ethiopia. They were unemployed and destitute so the government relocated them to this remote area and lent them a plot of land to farm. Neither the mother or father spoke any of the local languages and couldn’t communicate with anyone. After the mother tragically passed away he felt lost and abandoned with no way to care for his daughter. So he brought her to the local woreda (county) office and they brought her to Lalmba’s attention.

With compassion and empathy, our staff and the social workers tried to communicate the plan but we could see in his eyes that he didn’t understand. Finally a translator arrived and was able to share the plan, inform him of his rights and obligations, and confirm his consent for Lalmba to care for Mekdes for a few years while he gets his farm started.

We will do everything we can to reunify Mekdes with her father in a few years. Meanwhile, she will be living in the Chiri Children’s Home where she will receive love and loads of attention from our house mothers and her new siblings. She is our newest and youngest family member. Welcome to your new home, Mekdes!

60th Celebrations in Kenya and Ethiopia

By Rob Andzik

We want to extend a very special thank you to the TNM 2023 Team for walking and helping kick off the celebrations in Kenya, and to all those in both Kenya and Ethiopia who helped organize the celebrations!

Compassion, Courage, Empowerment, and Community

By Rob Andzik

Not everyone can make a journey like Tembea Na Mimi, visit the remote communities Lalmba supports, and witness the transformative impact of your donations firsthand. But if you could, what you would see is nothing short of a testament to the power of compassion, courage, empowerment, and community.

Many organizations do great work, promise efficient use of your donations, and aim to help the poor and destitute. So, what sets Lalmba apart? Lalmba’s uniqueness lies in these four words: Compassion, Courage, Empowerment, and Community.

Since 1963, Lalmba has been dedicated to serving some of the most remote and underserved communities in Africa. These are places that are hard to reach, far from the global media spotlight, where impoverished people are marginalized and virtually invisible to their own countries. It takes a great deal of Compassion and Courage to work in such challenging environments.

What truly sets Lalmba apart is our unwavering commitment to Empowerment. We don’t dictate; we collaborate. Lalmba provides for basic needs and also creates employment opportunities. We help single mothers start businesses through microloans. We help children receive an education and grow up healthy, with the potential to prosper. Above all, we prioritize the African people we serve, empowering them to lead change, and take ownership of their own futures. An example of this will be our new Education Center in Kenya, teaching skills needed to thrive in today’s world.

This philosophy leads us to Community. Lalmba is an integral part of the communities we work with, and the local people, together with our dedicated African staff, embodies the spirit of Lalmba as a People of Hope. Throughout Lalmba’s history, there have been countless stories of communities rallying together to overcome challenges. This spirit remains as strong as ever.

We witnessed this in Agaro Bushi, where we’re currently building staff housing. The trucks carrying materials couldn’t make the final steep climb due to mud and rough roads, stopping 3 km away. What we saw was remarkable: the community united, transporting building supplies on horses and their backs to ensure our clinic, which is, in truth, their clinic, could serve those in need.

The next day, in the cold pouring rain, it came full circle as three small boys walked into the clinic shivering with hypothermia. They had traveled alone and barefoot for two hours, from an even more remote community, so that their youngest brother could receive medical attention for a wound on his head. With Compassion, our staff tended to the wound, warmed these small boys to stop the shivering, and made sure they got safely home.

I invite you to join us on this remarkable journey. Your generosity fuels Lalmba’s work, ensuring that the impact continues for years to come. Together, with Lalmba’s staff and local leaders, we are transforming lives – one community, and in this case, three small boys, and an infant named Mekdes, at a time.

Reflections on the Road – Tembea Na Mimi 2023

By Jennifer Wenningkamp

It was the final day of our charity walk – Tembea Na Mimi 2023. About half of our staff joined the TNM team and walked the journey between Ochuna and Matoso and I loved every moment of it. The glorious sounds of children singing and playing drums, people walking with us, dancing, and carrying banners, the taste of dust in my mouth, and the smell of camels overwhelmed my senses.

I closed my eyes, took a deep, warm breath, and was struck by the stark contrast between this day’s celebratory trek connecting Lalmba’s two clinics in Kenya and one of Lalmba’s earlier epic journeys years ago. What must it have been like to walk hundreds of miles from Keren, Eritrea, with the hope of finding safety in Sudan? It must have been eerily silent in 1977 when Sium led hundreds of children through the desert in the middle of the night, escaping a dangerous war zone that threatened the lives of Sium’s family and all of Lalmba’s 250 children.

That journey saved the lives of hundreds of children and and fundamentally reshaped Lalmba as an organization. It shifted us from being anchored in one city, a Place of Hope in Keren Eritrea, to being an organization firmly rooted in protecting the children and patients in our care. At great risk, Lalmba became a courageous people of hope.

Today, Lalmba remains committed to the essence of its name. Wherever we operate, we establish a Place of Hope. Wherever we go, we are a People of Hope. As we celebrate Lalmba’s 60th Anniversary, we reaffirm our dedication to being both a Place and a People of Hope.

Here are some exclusive TNM 2023 photos not included in the printed version of this newsletter.

We invite you to be a part of the 60th celebration by sending a special donation of $60 or more. Why are we asking for your help? We don’t rely on massive grants or government contracts; we operate at the pace of your generosity and we have so much more to do. We honor your contributions by keeping costs low here in the US. Approximately 90 cents of every dollar donated directly supports our programs. We are unwavering in our commitment to our mission and our vision for the people and communities we serve.

That’s why your participation in Lalmba is crucial. Your donations, gifts, and volunteerism are what keep the organization going and fuel the work of Lalmba.

Rob Andzik60th Anniversary Special Edition
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Inspiration and Leadership, Part 10 of Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 10 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

By The Walkers of Tembea Na Mimi

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True inspiration comes from remarkable and unexpected places. It compels us to move, sometimes with a ferocious shout and other times with a soft embrace. True inspiration impacts the soul and excites the heart. For me it came from the brilliant red fire of a morning sunrise. It came through messages of support sent halfway around the world. And it even came from a tiny ladybug that comforted me at a time I thought I couldn’t take another step. Without inspiration, none of us would have completed this walk.

It is difficult to describe what this journey meant to each of us. Each of us experienced joy, sadness, adversity, friendship, fear, compassion, pain, beauty, and most of all love. We experienced all of this in our own ways. We each had or own journey and challenges to overcome. We all had to deal with our inner self, our past, our present, our future.

All of that and more was our constant companion. It drove us to take our next step and defeated us in the step after that. Sometimes we could look to the sides and witness the amazing beauty of where we were, and other times all we could do was look at the ground right before our feet. The miles passed by in a slow motion blur. Its just over the next hill. That was our mantra. I was never sure what hill we were talking about.

While we all shared the same journey and we followed the same paths, one of us carried more weight on his shoulders. The weight of responsibility is an incredible burden. It is a weight that in truth cannot be shared, only temporarily relieved. Some carry it well, others struggle mightily. Jeff James is one who carries it like a feather. He never showed signs of being discouraged. He never put himself first. Even after the walk, with all of his blog postings, he only talks of the strengths of others. As if we were the strength of the group. No, that strength came from our leader. The walk was his vision. The planning was his doing. He was our inspiration.

Jeff simply said Tembea Na Mimi. And we did.

And I for one am very thankful he asked.

— Rob Andzik


Jeff James

Jeff James at sunrise. Photo by Terry Robinette.

 

In one of his blog posts, Jeff described the ability of our Maasai guide, James, to see animals at a far distance and our hope to develop this Maasai Eye. Jeff James, an exceptional man has an even more exceptional eye. He has the ability to see into the hearts and souls of all he meets.

On day 7, I was feeling just a bit off. I wasn’t sure what was wrong, maybe I was just tired, cranky or just feeling sorry for myself, or all three. As I was having this inner discussion, Jeff walked over and asked if I was ok. Caught off guard, I immediately answered yes, I’m fine, but wondered how did he know that I was not quite right. He knew I wasn’t myself that morning because of his “eye”, that ability to see people not just on the outside, but their inner being.

As we finished our walk and reached our goal of Matoso, I watched Jeff with admiration, as he saw into the hearts and souls of all we met, but mostly the poor, the sick, and the children. Yes, James was amazing in spotting those animals in the distance, but Jeff does what Christ calls all of us to do  – to really see the poor, the orphans, the widows and the sick.

Thank you Jeff James for being the man you are. I feel blessed to know you.

— Terry Robinette


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Jeff James on the first morning of the walk.

Thank you to Jeff:It is hard to believe the trip to Kenya has come and gone. I remember the night I first learned of the trip, going to the mailbox and seeing the latest newsletter from Lalmba. As soon as I read the article about Tembea Na Mimi, I knew I wanted to take the trip and see what the organization I had been contributing to was all about. I submitted my application to be a walker. The trip didn’t seem real; it was so far in the future. I soon returned to my daily life, not thinking about the trip until the next email came wanting a commitment that I was “in” for the trip. I sent my commitment. I was “in”, yet the trip still didn’t seem real. That is how it went over the next several months with each new email — here are the dates, make your travel arrangements, here are the supplies you will need, don’t forget the malaria medication. I took each step moving closer to the trip, but it still didn’t seem real.

During this time, I could begin to see Jeff’s personality take shape. I sensed Jeff’s excitement about the trip and his love for the people of Africa. I could see his sense of humor, including giving everyone a nickname. Mine was Joe “the Cape Buffalo” Synk. Really, I couldn’t be a lion or something? I could sense his humor in the quote he chose by Winston Churchill to inspire the trip “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” I saw his humor again after reading another one of his emails, as I reassured my daughter that we wouldn’t be listening to carnivorous sounds at night.

Finally departure day arrived and I was at the airport saying goodbye to my family. A little over 24 hours later I was in Kenya leaving the airport to finally meet Jeff. I am still not sure how he knew it was me, since he had never seen a picture of me. Maybe he was just asking every guy if he were named Joe or maybe I just looked that lost and out of place. Either way, the greeting was warm, like we were old friends seeing each other after a long absence.

The next two weeks were amazing! It was fun getting to meet and learn about the other 10 walkers that had signed up for the trip. We experienced the people of Kenya and learned more about their culture. Seeing the Lalmba clinic and orphanage and meeting the staff was inspiring. Phenomenal, the only word to describe viewing animals you pay to see in a zoo in their natural environment. I also found out Jeff wasn’t kidding when he talked about listening to the carnivorous sounds at night.

Over those two weeks I had time to talk with and get to know Jeff. He is a proud husband and father, a strong leader, is able to persevere through mental and physical adversity and is not a bad singer. My initial impressions of Jeff through his emails were correct. He has a huge love for the people in Africa and wants to help empower them to have a better life. He also has a great sense of humor.

I do feel I made an impression on him as well. It was the third or fourth day, when we came upon a group of Cape Buffalo during our walk. We stood in silence, our group staring at their group, trying to decide who was more intimidating and should have the right of way in the Masai Mara. It was at this point that Jeff showed some of the traits he had picked up from me, as he “quietly and firmly led” us in a retreat, from behind, after forgetting to tell the rest of us.

As I sit here and reflect on the journey, having plenty of time for reflection since losing my job due to my blown CIA cover story, I want to thank you Jeff. First, for initiating such a wonderful and life changing trip. You billed it as a trip of a lifetime in your first email, and it lived up to that billing in every single way. Thanks for all of your hard work and preparation to make the trip a success and keeping us safe throughout our journey. Secondly, I want to say thank you to you and your family for the hard work and sacrifices you have made to dedicate your life to the Lalmba Association. From my time getting to know you on this trip, I feel that Hugh made the right choice and left Lalmba to a great leader and very intelligent man who will help to continue the good work the association has done. I look forward to seeing what other ideas you come up with to help get people like me involved and do more than just write a check. Good luck to you and Lalmba and hopefully another 50 years of helping people in Africa.

— Joe Synk


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Jeff James enjoying the evening fire near Migori.

Apropos Jeff James.

Jeff,

I have to go back to my last line in your Limerick in the ode that I appropriated from Handel’s Messiah .

WONDERFUL because you are –
W = warm
O = on time
N = natural
D = determined
E = engaged
R = rare
F = funny
U = uplifting
L = loving.

COUNSELOR because you were. You provided wise and gentle counsel to everyone at some point in their very personal and public journeys.

EVERLASTING FATHER- once a dad always a dad. You played with and tended to the child in yourself and the rest of us as well as never forgetting those we were walking for. And as for the…

PRINCE OF PEACE, what can I say? Your patience and quiet but resolute focus kept us putting 1 foot in front of the other with heart, head and soul.

Asante Sana Mwalimu with love, gratitude and the greatest respect.

— Thea Nation


One of the joys of our trip was getting to know you and to become aware of your many talents: a wonderful leadership ability; quiet confidence; calm under pressure; able to adjust to changing circumstance constantly; bringing a disparate group of strangers together in pursuit of our common goal; setting a tone of respect and support for all involved in this unforgettable adventure.

And now, Jane and I marvel at your writing ability. You have “nailed” Thea, Michael, Joe and Helena, and if past be prelude, will do the same for each of your fellow walkers.

Thank you,

— Pete Obernesser

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Jeff James kicks off the morning walk by reading a profile of one of the many people Lalmba serves.


The image of the shepherd comes to mind when I see Jeff in many of the pictures. He is walking sometimes with a stick, sometimes alone in his “zone”, but, mostly walking with others sharing his excitement of our adventure together. That image has stuck with me through all the days of the trip. Like the good shepherd, he was always checking on us, seeing if we were ok, encouraging those of us “blister” weary and tired.I was always amazed how many things needed his attention: schedules, trips to the airport, arrangements for cars and vans to take us places, places to stay and places to eat, medicines and supplies he had for us, camels and drovers, communications with John and Amanda, the list goes on and on. All of that work done with a servant’s heart, joyful and giving. What I loved seeing most was the joy he had watching all of us experience the purpose of this trip: to see the work up close and personal, the work of Lalmba. He has a poet’s heart as is evident in the blogs that we have all been blessed to read.

As we rode up the escalator in Denver, I could see Hilary and his kids waiting at the top. He turned to me with the biggest smile on his face, “those are my kids!” The world is lucky to have such a man in our midst. The shepherd is home.

— Jane Obernesser


The warm rising sun slowly peeks out over the grassy African terrain, bathing the crisp, cool morning in a shower of gold. With a documented distance behind us, and an uncertain journey ahead, it is the start of another beautiful, yet trying day. Our group of walker scattered out among our guides begins to navigate the land, trying to ease into the rhythm of walking that had dominated our waking hours for long enough for it to feel routine.

We head west, starting on the flat land with grass that towers up to the waist, and working our way towards the hills in the distance. We are alone, carving out our own path from nothing like the tracks on the moon. I look back, and somewhat silhouetted by the sun, I recognize the figure of Jeff James striding foot after foot, pace after pace, cool and confident, leading by doing. He looks relaxed as he follows his shadow into the unknown. But I know that that is not the case. Blisters cover his heel, his arch, the ball of his foot and all of his toes. Each step a battle, in itself. A war against himself.

He catches my eye. I smile and ask him how he’s feeling as I angle my trajectory towards him.

“Hurts like hell, but its fine!” he replies with a jolly smile. This is one of the many wonderful things that makes Jeff the amazing, unique person whom he is. His “every day’s a good day” attitude and ability to tell his body to “shut up and listen, this is what we’re doing” made him a huge role model, not only for me, but -I think all would agree- for us all. His leader ship and impeccable commitment to his organization and its cause has lead him to many adventures on the African continent.

After our trip together there are few I would rather travel with and ever fewer whom I have more respect for. I can only be grateful for the three weeks where he was a father figure and the opportunity to make a life long friend. I can only hope that maybe, just possibly, there will be another adventure in store for us.

Gideon, Chiri and Jasper, you have an amazing dad! Thanks for sharing! And thank you Jeff for an experience that will always drive me from now on, and one that I will always treasure deeply and miss with all my heart.

— Yogesh Aradhey

Jeff James walking through the savana

Jeff James walking through the savanna


Jeff,

In one of your posts about a TnM walker you mentioned how difficult it often was to look up from where we were placing our tired feet—in order to appreciate where we were and what we were seeing. I had the same experience. But after several days I realized that looking up—and then breaking my ankle—was a bad tradeoff. Appreciation is not a cerebral exercise; it is a ‘whatever-is-possible-at-that-moment’ impulse which is accomplished by the heart rather than the head. Whenever we can, we should just look up and feel grateful for what we’ve been given.

So let me “just look up” to you, Mr. James. You had the imagination and the courage to float this idea in the first place; you worked hundreds of hours to make it a reality for Lalmba and for each of the walkers; you gave up time with your family; you personally welcomed everyone at the airport; you ‘herded’ 10 ‘cats’ into a formidable group of trekkers; you were patient and kind but firm; you made wise decisions when tired; you never complained about your own dreadful blisters; you demonstrated a photographer’s eye for the feelings and tones between people; you loved your brother; you always had in mind the goal of our walk.

The successes of Tembea na Mimi were always “ours,” but the responsibilities were only “yours”. In short, ‘Wonderful, Counsellor, Father, Prince,’ you carried your pack.

I look up to you, and I’m grateful.

— Michael Nation


The white king of Kenya.

I’ve known this man my whole life, but after plodding dusty roads, rocky trails, and grassy plains along side him, I know him better and respect him more than I thought possible.  He carried a larger burden and suffered more gruesome wounds than all of us.   He showed us a world that is difficult to capture in words and best seen through his lens.  When part of the group wanted to press forward and another part wanted to pull back, he held us all together.

I will value this shared journey together always.  Our tents were close enough that I could hear him rise and start packing his gear in the wee dark hours while the rest of us slept and wished away the start of the day.  We shared quiet moments with cups of instant coffee in the dark busy mornings as the camels were loaded. We both seemed to wander all along the camel train separately from front to back, but when we weren’t paying attention, somehow gravitated to each other and silently walked side by side for miles feeling a comfort and assurance I have known all my life.

Approaching the second anniversary of Jeff and Hillary’s leadership of Lalmba,  it is difficult to imagine anyone more suited for this position.  He is compassionate to those in need and he is direct with those under his supervision. The Kenyans from Nairobi to Matoso love him and respect him, as do we who walk with him.   Those that care about Lalmba’s mission can be confident in Lalmba’s future.

— David James


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Thank you Jeff James for being our Inspiration!

Jeff & Hillary JamesInspiration and Leadership, Part 10 of Tembea Na Mimi
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“I Love Hills” Part 7 of Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 7 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

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“I love hills!” Terry exhaled as she charged past me.  I wheezed an affirmative in reply, which was all I could do.  Gravity was pulling me backwards, while some insane devotion to hills was driving Terry forward. It seemed to be her mantra; she invoked it to whomever she stormed past this hilly day.

I love hills.”

As I write these words, I find myself growling them as I try to understand their source.  Not because Terry’s voice was guttural, but because they came from a primal place.  Spoken with ferocity, they were an affirmation to the self — to herself, as she climbed out of the Rift Valley, bounding upward with ease. Her walk was strong and steady, as if tethered to an umbilical cord pulley towing her to the top.

So what does it mean to love hills? In our language we have so many sayings that teach us that hills are not to be loved.  If you’re old and incapable, you’re over the hill. If you’re sick or struggling in life, it’s an uphill battle.  Hills are obstacles that slow us down. They interfere with our need for speed and efficiency.  We level them or carve tunnels through them when building roads and sidewalks.  They are to be appreciated from a distance, as a vista of rolling hills at sunset incites calm and increases property values.

But Terry loved walking up hills! What was that about? Was her love really just a desire to conquer the hill? Was a hill Terry’s Goliath, the larger foe with the less worthy cause? All adventurers and endurance athletes need to possess an inner warrior to call upon when things get tough. If conquering a hill is an affirmation of your fortitude and prowess, it is to be revered. But is it love? To conquer and to love are not the same. And perhaps that confusion is the source of many strained relationships.

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An alternate representation must exist for Terry. If one strides against common wisdom and loves what most despise, the source of that devotion must be sacred.

The night before my son was born, I was lying next to my wife, her belly a perfectly curved hill.  The contractions transformed the smooth, taut bow into angular peaks jutting upward, tectonic plates of elbows and knees beneath the skin. When the contractions subsided, her belly returned to normal and relaxed into a rounded summit, a sacred life about to arrive, a life to whom I was already devoted.

A hill, a symbol of emerging life, and a promise of play and laughter on the other side.

You want to know how to make Terry cry? Just ask her about her children, ask her about the kids she met and embraced along the way, and ask her about the orphans in Matoso. Ask her to describe what makes them beautiful and special, and she will lovingly tell you, with her voice cracking and tears pooling in her eyes, about the sound of their laughter, the wideness of their smiles, and their enthusiasm for life in spite of having few opportunities.

Or perhaps Terry knows, like the indigenous people of many hillside cultures, that to be closer to God one must climb to the mountain top. The summit, literally nearer to heaven, just a stone’s throw away from the celestial gates. The mantra then, “I-love-hills,” is a prayer to help her reach the top, syllables to count steps by and regulate breath, utterances of love to remind her of her sacred journey . . . up.

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The day we reached Matoso, our goal, Terry walked towards Lake Victoria with a celebratory plunge in mind. There among the throngs of heads, bare to the sun, she met a young woman named Hillary, who spoke flawless English.  She is one of the lucky few to receive a Lalmba scholarship for secondary school, and will most likely go to college. Terry describes her like she would a mountain vista – lovely, expansive, and graceful.  Against all the odds, Hillary is successfully climbing life’s hills.  Her hard work reveals opportunity where there once was none.

Thinking of Terry’s mantra, I wondered if Hillary had one too, or if prayer was a factor in her success.  I wondered if there were any good hills nearby that she climbed to cast a better-aimed prayer, because something miraculous is working in her favor.

When we were kids we played a game called “king of the hill,” a test of strength and strategy, the victor winning the glory of being on top.  Many battles were fought on the slopes: falling down, sliding backward, getting up and charging the hill again like a warrior, until the best among us was standing on top, looking out over the heads of his weaker or less fortunate opponents. No doubt Hillary too has lived a life of valor; life’s slopes in her community are very steep.

Terry’s love for hills, whatever the source may be, mirrors Hillary’s recipe for success, I think. Perhaps the key ingredients to a life fulfilled are the recognition that there is no substitute for hard work, life is sacred, and prayer works. Hills are to be loved, the figurative and the factual, but the top is over-rated. Most lives are spent on the slopes anyway, so a healthy amount of love for climbing is prudent.

I love Hills!

My wife’s name is also Hillary; we sometimes call her Hill.  Her uncle is a runner, and he hates running up hills. He told me once that when he comes upon a hill, he thinks of his niece, and he screams “I love you, Hill!” while charging upward.  The burst of energy he gets by replacing what he psychologically hates with what he emotionally loves, allows him to surge through the hard parts.  Now that’s something to think about.

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Terry and James, photo by Terry Robinette

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Terry at the Flora Hostel. Photograph by Yogesh Aradhey

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After walking all day, Terry still has the energy to walk on Fred’s back.

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Terry and Michael spend a stretch together. Terry was energized by walking and talking with people.

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Terry has a quiet moment enjoying the sunset at camp.

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There must be wild animals in the distance. Terry and Rob are taking aim, while James enjoys a stretch in the tall grass.

 

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Terry Robinette, walker extraordinaire. Photograph by Rob Andzik

Jeff & Hillary James“I Love Hills” Part 7 of Tembea Na Mimi
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The Relativity of Age, Part 6 of Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 6 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

Our Elders, battle-scarred guardians, are the orators of history and culture. They are the wise leaders of our communities teaching us that age is relative, life’s pains multiply but become less noteworthy, and loss is understood best over time. A toddler’s traumatic loss of a soaring balloon pales to the loss of a pet, and that to the loss of a parent. The pain of a skinned knee can be walked off, but a new knee, like learning to walk for the first time, requires humility in place of grace.  And from humility develops wisdom, and from wisdom Elders are born.

On day 3, as Peter sank into a narrow patch of shade, like an aching heap of fatigue, he grumbled, “This is the first time in my life that I have felt over 70.”  They were not words of defeat; even at 77, Peter knows not the concept of surrender.  He is a former U.S. Marine, baptized in fortitude, “Ooh Rah” until the end. His final cries will be the battle cries of a distinguished warrior, not some sissy complaining about sore feet.  In fact, Peter can’t even feel his feet. With peripheral neuropathy below the knees, he only feels numbness or pain.  But he doesn’t limp or gripe, he simply walks with a hammering purpose, his steps outpacing the camels and crew.

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When he commented on his age, he was just being pragmatic. His statement was an expression of humility, a recognition that after all, perhaps being 77 does make this a little harder. Under the dappled light of that thorn tree, witnessing Peter feel his age, I wondered if pushing yourself to these physical extremes was healthy?  Is it good to be forced to contemplate your own mortality under the duress of an adventure? Had Peter not come on this trip, he might be sunning himself leisurely on the coast of North Carolina, feeling youthful and energized, rather than feeling old and drinking dirty water. I worried.

But Peter’s psychic plummet was short-lived; 2 days later he had a transformation. He had passed through the learning-to-walk phase, and had mastered his stride and breath. Age became relative once again, when on day 5, Peter boomed, “I feel like I’m 47!”  He walked like it too.  He was a fast walker, out in front leading with James, learning Kenyan history, each step spinning years off his life. He was Benjamin Button on safari.

What could cause someone to feel old one day and spry and youthful the next? How is it that expending energy rejuvenates energy?  And how is it that Peter, at 77, could overcome physical and mental fatigue, and then rebound as a new man? There was no recovery time. We were in the middle of nowhere.

I surmise age is relative, relative to many things, but here it seemed connected to the heart, to that intangible side of our consciousness where the soul resides.  When you’re walking down a dirt path and everyone but you is cloaked in the traditional vestments of poverty, you take notice and contemplate the forces at work that created such disparities. And then you walk harder, hoping that you can make a difference, with stronger strides, and hopeful prayers.  And perhaps, through the pathways of an open and engaged heart, it is possible to access a different kind of energy.   Perhaps it’s possible to time-travel to an age when you felt your strongest. For Peter that must have been at 47.

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Mama Jane, as Bara Bara liked to sing, “Mama Jane, Mama Thea … Mama Jane, Mama Thea …,” a spry 76 year-old, was naturally nervous about this “adventure” her husband coerced her to do. Before going to Kenya she had several bouts of doubt, second-guessing whether she could do this walk or not. After a couple of 13-mile training hikes back in Colorado, Jane would exhaustedly throw herself down at home and declare, “Forget it, I’m not going!”  But with time, a rejuvenating meal, and Peter’s assurances that she could do this, she would waiver and wonder, Could I have done more?  If I can walk 13 miles, I can certainly walk 2 more, she determined.  And so Jane went to Kenya, to test her strength, and to walk with Peter. After all, Peter and Jane Obernesser have been walking together for nearly 53 years as husband and wife.

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Nature is often conjured as an older woman, wise and gleaming with encouragement, nurturing us with gentle affirmations and milk and cookies. Other times she’s depicted with ferocity, thrashing us for our selfish ways.

Upon first meeting Jane, one might be inclined to label her as the archetypal grandmother, soft, sweet and buttery.  And no doubt that side of Jane is real and dominates, but the time and stress from walking revealed a tougher character in Jane, someone strong, who is capable of walking 20+ miles in a day with the visceral force of Mother Nature.

Once at a mid-day break, parched by intense heat and dust, Peter suggested to me that Jane should ride the camel after the break. He was concerned about her, and thought she was tired. So I went to Jane and pitched the idea, to which she politely said no, that she would prefer to walk. When I persisted, and mentioned that Peter suggested that she might want to ride, I thought her husband’s concern for her well-being would make a difference.  “He said that?” she blustered.  “He can ride if he wants, but I’m walking,” she declared.  And off she went, kicking up dust, walking into the noonday sun.

On the last day in Matoso, the guardians of the orphans, hunched grandmas weary from a lifetime of labor and loss, came to collect their weekly allotment of maize.  They lined up before us, as if presented for our inspection.  Jenipher Otieno, Lalmba’s Children’s Director, explained to us their plight and why we provide aid.  They are the guardians of multiple grandchildren whose parents, their children, died of AIDS.  A middle generation nearly wiped out, and the survivors, old women and small children, remain with little capacity to provide their basic needs.

This line of ladies was a face-to-face with reality, a boardroom meeting of the stakeholders and the investors, an opportunity for us to witness the gravitas of the need, giving perspective to our meager contributions. We walked to understand this. They are the “mimi” of “Tembea Na Mimi”, our ambulatory cause. When our backs, legs, hips, knees, and feet hurt, we considered what a lifetime of walking would feel like.

Jane’s focus had not been greater than at this moment. These were her age mates, women of her generation, struggling not only to survive but to keep their grandchildren alive and preserve their family and culture’s future. As a grandmother too, Jane’s bonds with them grew. She saw the unfair burdens that these women must hoist and wanted to share the weight.

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After our introductions, burlap and nylon sacks were filled with measures of maize. We all passively watched the spectacle, uncomfortable with our voyeuristic role; we would rather be helping. A woman with rheumatoid hands passed her sack to the scooper, where she received extra doses indicating her grandchildren were many. When the sack was filled, its weight and mass were clear. And Jane implored aloud, reaching toward the sack, “How will she carry that?” Jane would have gladly unburdened her of her load and carried it to her home for her. But the woman, with concealed strength, hoisted the sack to her head, clutched her walking stick in her gnarled hand, and turned to face the steep incline home.  Perhaps she was a little more hunched as she left, perhaps her impressions against the red soil were deeper for the weight, but this burden meant sustenance for her family for the next week.

Outside the tin shack, the storage room for the maize, another woman scattered a trail of kernels from a hole in the bottom of her sack.  Jane squatted down in the dirt and lovingly gathered each kernel, and uttered aloud a private affirmation, “Every one of them counts, right?”

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Every one of them counts. Every year, every loss, every ache, every echo of a child’s laugh, every memory of a time of strength and courage, they all count when adding up the life of an Elder. Their wisdom is the source of our hope, an assurance that life’s dreams will continuously regenerate and life’s challenges will be tackled by the force of experience.

At the end of day 6, Peter, the first to arrive at camp, waited in the shade for Jane. When she ambled into camp, he yelled to her, “How’s it going, baby?” And Jane smiled at him from beneath the brim of her hat, brandishing a thumbs up.  It was going okay.  They had reached the end of the day, and could finally drape their arms across each other’s shoulders, a daily ritual, with heads bowed and foreheads touching.   They shared energy reserves and gave private and prayerful thanks for life, and perhaps renewed their vows … to keep going.

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This morning when I woke up, my body ached and I groaned with the effort to upright myself. I’m nearly 50 with premature joint pain. I probably complain to my wife more than I should about this, secretly hoping that sympathy will be the balm to ease the way. But I know there is no balm but fortitude when it comes to aging — fortitude in the knowledge that life’s path is best navigated from the heart, pain is only a distraction aimed to slow you down, and love conquers all. I should hug my wife tonight to remind myself of that simple truth, a truth that can only be imparted by witnessing the strength and accomplishments of our Elders.

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Jane sings a verse of “500 Miles”

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Peter inspecting the troops. At the Ongoro Children’s Home, the orphans sing and march, welcoming us to their home.

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Jane showers a baby with affection.

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Joe and Peter lead us along the Migori road.

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Jane and Peter ride out of the Rift Valley

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Peter chats with the fishmonger in Nairobi.

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Jane observes the hippos from the banks of the Mara river.

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Jane getting an assist from David across a creek.

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Peter negotiating with an artist at Nairobi’s City Market.

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Our elders lead the day.

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Jeff & Hillary JamesThe Relativity of Age, Part 6 of Tembea Na Mimi
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Time and Love, Part 5 of Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 5 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

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Rob walked with James, our Maasai guide, showering him in conversation. “What are those animals there, James?” Rob inquired, pointing far into the distance.  “They are cattle,” says James.  Cattle? They look like sheep.  Are they calves?” Rob persisted.  “They’re cattle,” James repeats.  “They sure look like sheep.  How many cows and sheep do you have, James?”

Rob taught James a song called “Put a Melody in my Heart,” which required sticking your tongue out and waggling your bottom.  An unusual sight on the Kenyan plains, but somehow fitting and funny.  James struggled with the “L” sound and could only sing “merody.”  This made them laugh like kids, inducing a great spirit for walking.  And walking is what they did, Rob probing James’ life, eager to know about his family and his culture, forging a connection deeper than the mark of their footprints on the savanna.

As the day wore on our questions pivoted, and became more time-oriented.  We’d ask, “How far ’til camp, James?” “It is just there, over that hill,” says James. “About 3km. One hour of walking.” And then 2 hours later, we’d ask again, “How many more miles to camp, James?’ And James’ reply was just the same. It was always just over the hill, a couple of kilometers away. Day after day that pattern continued and we vowed never to trust James’ time estimates again.  At first we thought it was just James, but then our next guide Gisoi came along, ushering us from the edge of the Mara conservancy to the top of the escarpment.  And after Gisoi, it was George and countless other Kenyans along the way, guiding us with time and distance estimates which were never, NEVER accurate.

We were obsessed with time.  We needed to wake up at 5:15, have our packs camel-ready by 6:15, and start walking by 7:00. We would walk for 50 minutes and rest for 10. Gadgets and maps were pulled out at breaks to triangulate our whereabouts, communicating with satellites, modern day angels tracking our steps. Rob had the best gadget, sending a ping to the heavens every 10 minutes.   We would determine the crow-fly distance, factor in number of steps taken since morning, add 20% for weaves and dips to reach the total number of miles walked. We then converted this to kilometers so our guides could understand what we were talking about. “What’s that conversion formula again?” I would turn and ask Rob.  And he would mutter some equation at me, which I would promptly forget. And when factoring was complete we would determine, almost always, that we still had miles to cover before we could camp.

We had 15 miles a day we needed to walk; we wrote it in our brochure and put it on the website.  1 cause, 10 days, 150 miles, 4 million steps . . . whatever! We did more, and we dedicated ourselves to more than one cause.  But they’re numbers and they drive us.  We westerners need our precious first world constructs of time to determine value.  If it can’t be measured it’s probably not worth doing, right? Wrong!

It’s insanity measuring life in numbers.  Kenyans were notoriously bad at time and distance estimates because those are irrelevant in their lives.  The schedules that drive life in the bush, “Africa time”, are determined by the seasons of rain and where the sun rests in the sky, not by punching clocks, board meetings, or Gantt charts.

I once received directions from an old man who said our destination was “four sees” that way.  Which meant that from where we stood to the horizon was “one see,” and the distance to our destination was that times four.  His life was not spent clocking miles in a car. He was a walker;  distance was measured by sight and time by the sun. Days and years are not counted, birthdays aren’t celebrated, and there are no guidelines about the number of meals one should eat per day.  It could be days before the next proper meal.

But life goes on. The sun rises, water is fetched, the ground is tilled, seeds sowed, wood collected, and a child dreams of going to school before running off to usher home the livestock. Neighbors share a laugh. Laughter is abundant in rural Africa, tipping the scale of life towards joy. Perhaps the essence of community is not in the tidiness of your neighbor’s hedges, but rather in the laughter shared over the top of them.   Rob seemed to recognize this.  The sound of his laughter mingled with the Africans in a shared appreciation for the joy of being alive, walking, together, on Africa time.

Esoterically, I wondered as we walked through these impoverished communities, if one’s existence is not measured by what you own or accomplish in life, how then is life’s value determined? Is there a measure for a life well lived? Is life’s value intrinsic, imparted at birth by a mother’s first kiss? Poverty’s children are not unloved; they’re just hungry for opportunity and nutrition. Perhaps in the absence of material wealth, emotional wealth becomes the greatest commodity.  Perhaps “Africa time” is not the absence of motivation, but instead the presence of love…love for the simple experience of being in this world.

On the last day of walking, we skipped many of our 10 minute breaks. From Othoo on, our stride had found new strength, our destination was soon in sight.  It was our final stretch of road. It might have been the road to Emmaus for all I knew; the large crowd around us could easily have concealed a saint.  We were euphoric, enveloped in accomplishment, energized by the bustle.

Our gadgets were finally tucked away. We knew we would arrive the way we started, walking.  I was welling with the urge to weep or laugh.  And then Rob did both.  “Jeff, look!” he cried, pointing down the road toward a chorus of nurses, healers dressed in blue and white dancing toward us, singing a gospel song. Our groups merged into one, and the song floated along for our participation.  And so we sang, “We are marching, we are marching. We are marching in the light of God.”  In the Kenyan rendition of the song, there’s a sweet howl tucked onto the end of “God,”  lovingly drawing out His name.

Rob Andzik embodies a brilliant balance of western time and African time. He’s an engineer who launches satellites into space, those angels that enabled us to communicate and navigate and keep to our schedule. Rob’s work world is driven by technology, and his professional life is no doubt steeped in timelines and time-boxed meetings. The world of business needs to operate that way, and it’s a rare individual who can be equally comfortable in that realm and also at ease in Africa time.  Rob is fluent in both.   There’s a Swahili saying, “Haraka, haraka, ha ina baraka,” which means hurry, hurry has no blessings.  It is the blessings in life that matter. We seek blessings by doing good, and our lives are enriched in return.  And those blessings require a different quality of time, committed time invested out of love.

In the presence of orphans, children in need, Rob gifts them with earnest, genuine love and devoted time.  It’s an incredible sight, this man engaging with children and the downtrodden, his world of business and technology as far away as those satellites in celestial orbit floating above him.   He is a champion of the cause, the 1 cause that is many, and as Lalmba’s chairman he skillfully intertwines his time as husband, father, and engineer with being “A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, God in his holy dwelling.” ~Psalm 68:5

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Rob greets Joyce, Lalmba’s long-time cook in Kenya.

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6 Am, and Rob’s pack is ready for the camel.

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Rob and his gadget, sending pings to heaven.

Photos By Trail Camera

Rob photo bombing the trail camera. Intended to catch pictures of wild beasts around our camp at night, it only captured us.

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Photographing hippos on the Mara river.

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At Lalmba’s compound in Matoso, Rob walks with some children to the lake. Our journey had just ended and a swim was in order.

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Rob greets one of the guardians from Lalmba’s RCAR program. The guardians are single grandmothers, inheritors of the plight of AIDS and responsible for keeping their grandchildren, their communities and their culture alive.

Jeff & Hillary JamesTime and Love, Part 5 of Tembea Na Mimi
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The Principle of Pleasure and Pain, Part 4

This is Part 4 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

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If strength is measured by one’s ability to persevere, Helena Sarcone had to be one of our strongest walkers. She was usually the last to lace her boots in the morning; bandaging her numerous blisters required time. Often she debated wearing sandals or boots; both caused new sores.  It was simply a deliberation on blister distribution.  Mapping out future blisters requires a fatalistic sense of humor, which Helena possessed in abundance.

Halena's Feet
Photo by Helena Sarcone

By day 3 our blister competition was in full swell. Helena had the most, but mine were the largest. We compared our wounds around the fire at night, arguing over the best way to apply moleskin — plaster it right on top of the hot spot, or cut a hole in the middle so it lay around the sore? I used the plaster-over technique and I could say it worked just fine, but I had the biggest blisters. Helena used the hole technique,  and she could say it worked better, but she had the most. Who knows? All I know is that blisters are a scourge; they hurt to walk on, each step a new sensation of pain.

So why would we do this trek, with full knowledge it will hurt?  The “Pleasure and Pain Principle” states that all human behavior is motivated by two things – seeking pleasure and avoiding pain. But with these walks, pain’s a given; there’s no avoiding it. The futile efforts of good socks and shoes and the endless crap-parade of moleskin count as attempts to avoid pain, I suppose, but they don’t work.

Each day we awoke knowing that the morning light would be radiant,  long and ancient savanna shadows would drape the cool air, and the camels would groan and gnash in contempt for their burdened backs. Those were givens. And so too was the knowledge that the day’s first steps would hurt like hell.

After an hour or so of walking, however, the individuality of each blister morphed into a single, throbbing, vibrant burn. Our steps felt more like bare feet over hot coals — a right of passage best endured without complaint. And really, what would be the point of complaining?  We had a mission to complete and a cause greater than ourselves driving us forward.

As a steady reminder of why we walk, a beautiful stream of children meandered through our caravan.  Barefoot kids effortlessly scurried around us and over broken, rocky ground. Some had babies holstered to their hips, others carried buckets or bags on their heads. One boy ran by gripping hand-hewn crutches, dragging polio-ravaged legs behind him. This land is not easy to navigate, even for the able-bodied.  Every step seems to have an element of peril, in every face a story of hard-earned survival.

Helena saw it too, and so in silent agreement and mutual respect for the path we both must walk, we eased into our stride and into a state of mind, numb to personal pain, and awakened to those who walk with us.  As walkers for a cause, we were like mystics who self-flagellate, inviting a bit of pain to bring us closer to the divine.

I’ve heard it said that all art comes from a place of pain. To create something beautiful is to recognize that pain exists.  Beauty is a salve for fresh and old wounds. In that sense, Helena is an artist, creating beauty from pain, and finding strength from a point of weakness.  Every masterpiece holds a paradoxical twist of those extremes.

The below stanzas are excerpts of a spoken work poem Helena Sarcone wrote, post-walk, in Nairobi.  These are lines that paint the beauty of pain and poverty. 

“Every time, it’s something

Something different

Jealousy, want, wonder

We all stare

Their malnourished bellies escaping under their shirts

Dirt houses held up by love

Wide eyes follow us

As they stare

On both sides, each stare is met

Some held, others forgotten

But all true”

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Post walk foot portrait.

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Singing “Ooo Le La Lo” to some curious locals. Helena always initiated a song as a way to make friends.

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Sunset on the Migori air strip.

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A dirt house held up by love.

Jeff James_Tembea Na Mimi_2015_079Foot repair around the evening fire.

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Riding high and giving the camel a try.

 

Jeff & Hillary JamesThe Principle of Pleasure and Pain, Part 4
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“Not Your Average Joe,” Part 3 of Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 3 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

 

“Silence is the mystery of the world to come. Speech is the organ of this present world. More than all things love silence: it brings you a fruit that the tongue cannot describe. In the beginning we have to force ourselves to be silent. But then from our very silence is born something that draws us into deeper silence. May God give you an experience of this ‘something’ that is born of silence. If you practice this, inexpressible light will dawn upon you.” —Issac of Ninive

walkersLike an effigy backlit against the horizon, a totem of great power, Joe walked alone. He was a solitary figure, a classic introvert, and before arrival in Nairobi, he was a great mystery. We represented him as a silhouette in our newsletter and the stories I imagined about him were legendary.

I had his application, I knew he was Joe the engineer from Arizona. But in my imagination he was Joe the mercenary, or Joe the CIA spy using the cover of humanitarian adventurer to wage a secret war against Al Shabaab.  I expected to meet gun smugglers sitting under an acacia tree as we crested a hilltop in the middle of the bush.

Sadly, that never happened; Joe is an engineer from Arizona.  He is a humanitarian and an adventurer.  He is a solitary man, quiet and gentle. A triathlete, tall and strong.  He is a proud husband and father.

And he is more than a silhouette.  He is Joe Synk, a multi-dimensional person, who liked to walk alone.

With his head down, hat pulled low over his eyes and every inch of skin sheltered from the sun, Joe set the pace.  He led the group not out of a competitive desire to be first, but because his legs needed to move at that pace.

His steps were rhythmic, like tapping out a walking meditation, as if he were aware that silence is precious and each step is sacred. 

The Lakota Sioux believed similarly about smoking tobacco, that it is a sacred ritual and the exhaled smoke is the vehicle that carries the prayer into the universe.  

Joe’s vehicle was his feet coupled with an unbreakable stride — each step fully grounded, each carrying purpose and hope.


 

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In distance walking, I’ve always referred to that mental space where the mind fully controls body and breath as the “zone.”

The zone exists somewhere between “damn, this hurts” and “oh, what a beautiful sunset.”  In the zone, you lose awareness of your body in motion, breathing is regulated and feelings of fatigue slip away. You are a windup soldier with an ever-coiled spring.  And in that perpetual motion, your thoughts are free to debate and solve humanity’s greatest problems or simply contemplate the existence of being.  As one’s body moves through space and time, so do thoughts dance in the head.

I remember thinking in one particular zone, that in America, we joke about lawsuits for tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.  But are we joking?  Born into opportunity and relative wealth, we expect our paths in life to be clear of all obstacles. I struggled to walk at times because of bad blisters on the balls of my soft feet, painfully aware that the culture I was born into created this softness. First world living is the source of my weakness, I silently grumbled. Step, step, step . . .Jeff James_Tembea Na Mimi_2015_276

Then I began thinking about life’s blessings, each step ticking them off, countless advantages, birth rights of an American, etc. Opportunities to earn and learn have always been present in my life.  But not so for most of our brethren whom we walked with and for . . . and so the thoughts flowed, and we walked on with Joe leading the group, in a zone where his purest intentions were healing the world.

I really do believe that those silent intentions, prayers if you will, have great power to heal and change the world.  The world needs more people like Joe, who quietly and firmly lead us to walk with purpose.  He is not your average Joe.  He is Joe Synk, husband, father, engineer . . . and friend from Arizona.


 

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Joe and David lead us away from the Mara river where we bathed the night before in front of a crowd of curious onlookers.

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Joe greets an elder from the community who came to see our spectacle.

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Sunrise, facing east toward the Rift Valley, Joe readies for the day.

Sunset Lake Victoria, Matoso, Kenya. Jane and Joe share a private conversation at the See Lodge.

Jeff & Hillary James“Not Your Average Joe,” Part 3 of Tembea Na Mimi
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“Lawrence”, Part 2 of Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 2 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

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He was “our Lawrence,” tall and lean, culturally fluid, graceful in life, and impeccable in manners.  His name is Michael Nation, and he walked like a Somali tribesman.

As we walked the Migori road, a Somali man driving a matatu pulled alongside our ambling forms, excitedly asking “Are you from Somalia?”  Our pink skin quickly gave answer, but his excitement didn’t fade. We were walking with 22 mixed-breed Somali camels through Luo land! Camels in this part of Kenya were unheard of, and this man felt like he’d returned home.

His interest in us energized me.  I started stepping a little higher, reaching a little further, striving to minimize impact and harness the energy of each step into forward momentum. I imagined myself walking like a Kenyan. They walked with ease, bodies gliding over broken landscapes as if they were paved pathways. Their heads and bodies remained motionless as their legs effortlessly moved forward.  For brief moments, when I tried really hard, I could be as graceful in my stride too, but mostly, I lumbered.  My body jostled and lurched forward, like an American accustomed to sidewalks.

Jeff & Hillary James“Lawrence”, Part 2 of Tembea Na Mimi
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Ooo Le La Lo, Part 1 of Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 1 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

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The blisters on my feet have healed and the limp has gone away, but what lingers the longest are these words softly sung from recent, precious memories:  “Ooo le la lo, ooo le la lo, ooo le la lo, la le loooo . . .” It’s a call and response song, and no matter where I am or what I’m doing when that memory calls, I respond: “Le laaa lo, le la-la lo. Le laaa lo, le la-la loooo.”   It’s a song with a melody that rides the crest of your breath, and just makes you want to smile.

Meaningless words they were, but we all understood them to mean love and friendship.  And we witnessed this song bridging language and culture, closing many divides between us.

We sang with our guides around the fire at night and we sang with hundreds of people who gathered to watch us pick ourselves up and wring ourselves out after being pummeled by monsoon rains.

We sang with orphans, and patiently waited for their echoed response, which invariably came.  Once sung, these were words that had to be repeated, even if only silently in the quiet of the mind.

A song, 22 camels, 2 Canadians, 9 Americans, 2 Scots, 9 Kenyans, “thereabouts,” and a lot of land to cover, we marched for 10 days covering 163 miles.

But the distance and time are no longer relevant; they never really were. They are just numbers to help quantify what we did, vying to impress you with our strength and commitment to complete a great physical challenge.

The real adventure story is not the physical challenges or the daring passages through wild lands (although there were plenty of those). It’s the people who came together to complete this mission who are the fabric of this tapestry.  The fabric of all adventures is woven by the characters who lived them.    

Over the course of the next several weeks, I will reveal to you a journey rich in adventure, saturated with ardent altruism and with noble deeds.  These are good people. Expect good stories. 

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Thea Nation shares a song and dance with Bara Bara, our lead guide.

First, there’s Mama Thea who taught us the song to heal and lift our beaten spirits.  She was a healer by trade, a retired hospice nurse, who has no doubt provided comfort to hundreds of dying lives, and as I’ve experienced firsthand, to the vibrant as well.  I use that term loosely.

Thea massaged the feet of the sore and dressed the blistered wounds of the ailing.  At the sight of one mangled foot she declared it “positively unattractive,” and then proceeded to clean and mend.  She is a healer. Thea Nation, R.N. (retired nurse) she liked to exclaim.  She was the anchor thread to our tapestry, the zig to our zag, our comic relief and confidant, she was the Queen Mother. Riding high atop the camel, she surfed to the camel’s gait, arms outstretched, fluid and regal.   All wanted to bow in her presence; some did.  

I don’t know when Thea began a life of service, I suspect she’s been a giver her entire life.  Her history with Lalmba spans 30 years, first aiding Eritrean refugees in the Sudan in the 1980’s.

When I met her in Nairobi, she had just finished serving as a hospice nurse in Tanzania.  I have no doubt her CV is filled with great deeds of humanitarianism.  I have even less doubt that her healing extends far beyond the confines of her profession.  She touches the lives of everyone she meets.  She makes everyone feel special and a little happier to have shared an experience with her, no matter how brief.

 

Thea enjoys the morning light. Morning time, when the shadows are long and the legs fresh (yes, that is a kilt you see), it’s the ideal time for looking around. As the afternoon wanes and the legs and feet tire, we struggled to look past our feet. Each step becomes measured by the energy left to keep us upright and moving forward.
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Thea and Michael Nation (siblings) share a boulder and some trail food. Here we are in the north Maasai Mara conservancy, heading southwest, looking out over pastoral land grazed by Maasai livestock, primarily goats, sheep and cattle.
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Thea and Jane Obernesser enjoying the sunset and a conversation after a long day of walking.
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Thea hugs James, our Maasai guide, goodbye. James was hired to guide us through the Mara conservancy. We said goodbye after day 6 and met a new guide to take us to Kihanche. James could spot wildlife miles away. We all strived to develop the Maasai Eye.
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Thea hydrates along the roadside.
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After the monsoon.  Thea leads a group of children in singing “Ooo Le La Lo.”
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Thea makes friends with one of Lalmba’s RCAR children, a young girl with drug-resistant HIV.
Jeff & Hillary JamesOoo Le La Lo, Part 1 of Tembea Na Mimi
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