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Scars and Memories, Part 9 of Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 9 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

At 15, Yogesh’s path to self-determination is just beginning, and already he’s proven himself fearless among warriors and wise among elders. On the last day of walking he was barefoot, an indication of his devotion to every contour and edge the ground contained. It was now sacred ground, his journey across it was complete, and his wisdom was won. Why not risk a little injury and pain in the final steps? The impact seemed only to make him stronger, as all good adventures do, allowing him to harness the power of danger and exertion and transform it into strength and character. This was a rite of passage, a hero’s journey, a deliberate plunge into the unknown, and he had arrived on the other side unscathed, a man among men.

Joseph Campbell describes the “Hero’s Journey” as being a cyclical path to higher consciousness. It’s a cycle that begins with a call to adventure and culminates in the metaphorical death and rebirth of the self. And with that rebirth comes a responsibility to lead and share the wisdom learned from your ordeal. In the Maasai culture for a boy to become a man he must live apart from his community for 4 months and then kill a lion with only a knife and spear. The risk of failure is great, but risk is a fundamental element of the equation. Without it, there is no ordeal, there is no transformation of self, no passage to manhood, and no wisdom to impart.

On adventures like these, much of the take-away wisdom rises from winning an internal battle. You fight against fatigue and the weedy-brain thinking that nags you to stop walking, tells you that you’re hot, that your feet hurt, you’re hungry, your legs are chafing, and your pack is uncomfortable. Winning those battles is a mental game, as you project thoughts into the near future and imagine the balm of completion. Or it’s a game of the heart, the internal strength found through compassion, keenly observing the dire needs of the peasants whom you pass, reflecting on problems, solutions and feeling grateful, perhaps guilty for your status in life. The wisdom gleaned from those internal victories of heart and mind is our goal, because even the oldest among us desires new wisdom and the time to share it.

Yogesh led the group whenever he wanted, proving that his endurance matched or exceeded the best efforts of his elders. As he walked with real warriors, not just westerners with soldier hearts, but real warriors – men from cultures where they are trained to defend land, livestock and community from their very first steps, and to fight and die with honor – he pondered this world, a world where he could study robotics in Virginia while his age-mates fought lions in Kenya to become men.

And so, from day one he studied them, our guides, Turkana and Samburu tribesman. He determined that the grace and efficiency of their walk allowed them to walk faster and further. He practiced and modeled his walk after theirs, conserving energy with a fluid stride. He marveled at James, our Maasai guide, who with keen vision and a textbook knowledge of wildlife, could identify elephants and lions hidden in the vast and tangled landscapes. Yogesh practiced seeing, scanning the land, striving to spot an animal before James, with occasional success. When there was no risk of rain, he escaped the confines of his tent and slept under the open sky like our guides, star-gazing while drifting off to sleep. Instead of wearing trousers, our guides wore “kikoys”, colorfully patterned cloth wrapped around the waist like a skirt, hanging down to the knees, allowing for freedom of movement and a bit of ventilation. Yogesh had a towel that was large enough to function as a proper kikoy. At camp in the evenings, he wore it proudly, testing for truth and finding it.

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With a group such as ours, a cadre of westerners on safari in the African bush, the heart of the group is the guides. Yogesh was one of the first who made the leap from being mere walker to beating with this heart.  Without our guides we would not have reached our destination; we could very well have died. Our guides are the ones who slept in shifts and chased lions from camp with a bullwhip while we dreamed of hamburgers. They are the ones who wrestled sick camels to the ground to inject them with antibiotics while we nursed our blistered toes. They are the ones who loaded our gear on bad-tempered camels while we stretched sore muscles and worried about dirty water. They are the ones who sang to the camels to soothe their tired and petulant souls, coaxing them forward with love, while we ambled without responsibility. They are the ones who outmaneuvered thieves who sought to pilfer our goods, moving us into a defensive position under the cover of darkness, while we grumbled at the nuisance of moving our tents. And they are the ones who prepared our meals and gathered our water while we sipped Tusker’s and Reds, canned nectar of the Wazungu tribe. Yogesh resided right in this central core, helping as much as he could, hoping their strength and wisdom would rub off on him, which it did in abundance.

In his time with the guides, he learned to work the camels, lead them, load and unload their packs. He learned Swahili words and phrases, and what life was like as a young man in Kenya. One night, after all other walkers had gone to bed, one of our guides taught Yogesh to sew, and helped him mend his broken shoes.  While immersed in needlework and while the rest of us slept, Yogesh learned how to laugh in Turkana.

The guides affectionately called him “Yogurt,” which he didn’t mind because he knew it was spoken with fondness. After all, he had entered their inner circle and had found brothers. When Helena called him “Yogurt”, however, he prickled, sensing something different, like a sister teasing a brother. Nicknames seem to either mock or express endearment, and there was nothing mock-worthy of Yogesh, but he sure was fun to tease.

David once referred to him as the “man-cub”, and I laughed and immediately thought about Mowgli, from Kipling’s The Jungle Book. With the best of intentions and the fondest associations, I turned to Yogesh and screamed, “Mowgli, you’re Mowgli!’  And then I paused and considered the soft bigotry of my remark and in a rush of guilt, I apologized. But the connection is much more profound than the fact that both Yogesh and Mowgli hail from India. The bigger revelation for me was the parallels in their characters:  Mowgli, the man-cub, the boy raised by wolves, who would rather face a tiger in battle than be spoiled by the comforts of mankind.   Fearless in the face of danger, seeing freedom in the wild, he wanted to fight with bears, dance with monkeys, howl like a wolf, and climb trees like a panther. He was too smart to be fooled into the coils of Kaa, the hypnotic python. I saw that same fearlessness, that same energy and preference for the wild in Yogesh.  In the end, Mowgli was seduced and tamed by the promise of love . . . the best exit plan for all heroes, I suppose, and the reason we were on this adventure together.
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For the Maasai, their time in the wild as young men ends with the rite of circumcision. The pain and the drama of the ordeal are not to be forgotten, and the passage to manhood is memorialized because of it. Other cultures practice different rites of passage, sometimes facial or belly scarring, or ritual teeth shaping in other tribes, but all mark the passing of childhood, and all intend for the memory of that moment to be significant, marked by pain and scarring, a lifetime reminder of the wisdom gained and the mission to spread it forward.

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We joked with Yogesh, promising a creative scar to send him home. I remember as a child treasuring my scars and showing them off to my friends.  There are dramatic stories of heroism associated with each scar. I try to keep that philosophy alive with my children today, celebrating little scars, and trying to find lessons from an experience. They must think I’m crazy when I throw my fist in the air and scream, “Yes! Nice scar,” followed by a high-five.  In our society the outward scar has lost its value as a badge of courage, a visual reminder to help usher young people to maturity. We now hide our scars behind cosmetic surgery instead of wearing them with pride.

On his final day, when Yogesh walked barefoot, perhaps he was hoping for a wound to leave a scar, a souvenir to take home.  A beaded bracelet just doesn’t quite suffice. To his mother’s delight, he didn’t succeed and returned home unblemished. Nonetheless he arrived in Virginia forever changed, I’m sure, for significant events transpired and important memories were created.

Perhaps in the absence of physical scars, the rites of passage in modern society are the significant memories we create when life veers into adventure, and away from the soft memories of everyday life.  In the routine of everyday life it’s easy to forget what really matters and we tend to over-value the mundane, wisdom becoming the synopsis of a reality TV show, instead of a lesson in what it means to be human.  Momentous memories are born in the battle of survival and from the triumphant feeling of success. These memories are mile markers of our moments when we left one self behind and sent a wiser one forward – a fresh soul whose life will forever follow a different trajectory.

That’s why it’s vital for us to answer when adventure calls, and embrace risk with open arms.  Because there in the cusp of survival you will find truth and wisdom beyond measure.

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Seen through the foggy wind shield of a visiting Jeep, Yogesh zips his pack in preparation for walking.

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Around the campfire.

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Yogesh eating trail food is a road-side attraction.

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Many women, young and old, asked for Yogesh. They literally wanted us to leave him behind for them to adopt or marry.

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Filling water bottles at break.

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Photo by Rob Andzik

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Yogesh’s mended shoe. Photo by Rob Andzik

Jeff & Hillary JamesScars and Memories, Part 9 of Tembea Na Mimi
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The Rise and Fall of Heroes, Part 8 of Tembea Na Mimi

 

 

 

This is Part 8 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

Huddled under the branches of a thorn tree, cold rain pounding against my back, I witnessed courage in action and felt small and weak in comparison. But I am used to that; I’ve spent a lifetime watching my warrior brother excel in all tests of life, out in front, and taking action while others shiver.

It was day 9, and we were anticipating the end of our journey with mixed emotions. We had taken a break under a shade tree on a dirt road adjacent to a school. A crowd hovered around our menagerie, spectators of the greatest show in town. The school’s soccer field was flat and grassy and tempted us as a campsite.  Plus, the waning afternoon light and the black and foreboding sky over Lake Victoria were clear signs we needed to make camp soon.  Unfortunately, the school’s headmaster wasn’t around, and without his permission, we decided it best to leave the road in search of another open space to make camp.   As we walked through farmland rain fell, gently at first, showering our dust and fatigue away. “This feels good,” I exclaimed to Amanda.  She smiled and tittered “mmm, yeah” with a concerned gaze skyward.

I put my camera in my pack and zipped it, but then it began to rain harder so I opened my pack and wrapped my rain jacket tightly around my camera. I was hot from the day of hiking and didn’t mind getting wet, but I worried about my camera getting rain-damaged. Pictures are treasures for me, and I felt greatly enriched by this trip’s rewards. And this was Africa, after all; the rain will pass and the sun will return its usual permeating warmth, drying clothes and lifting spirits.

And then from the west came a wall of wind and water so mighty the camels panicked.  They pulled against the guides, straining their ropes, slipping and falling down in torrents of mud. Our spectators, locals accustomed to lake storms, laughed at our pandemonium. But soon they too were cowed to the corners, seeking shelter under thorn bushes not suitable for a goat.

I followed Amanda beneath a slightly taller bunch of trees and hunched my back to the storm. The wind, icy and fierce, pushed at my neck and I shook deeply – shivering like never before. I looked left and saw Amanda and Thea,  thin and blue through sheets of gray water, huddled in vain under a useless umbrella.

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And then I looked out to the clearing and saw my brother, David, his hat pulled low, his mouth and eyes set with determination, his knife in one hand slashing the taut sisal rope that tethered two camels head to tail, pulling in opposing directions.  As one camel fled, David brought the other to its knees and unburdened it of crates and saddle before sending it off to graze with a loving pat on the rear end.

Time passed slowly under that thorn tree; the rain and wind were unrelenting. I shivered, paralyzed by the cold, watching camel after camel get unloaded and released. Tarps unrolled and equipment stowed, trenches dug, tents erected and blown away and retrieved, only to be taken again. Eventually the large tent surrendered to the storm and lay flat in the mud, its poles broken in a discarded heap. And I remember thinking, as I looked out at David and the other brave warriors who stayed for the fight, that they did not look defeated nor hypothermic like I felt. In fact, they looked enthused, energized and warm, eager to keep fighting.  They were having the time of their lives battling nature and crowing defiance into the wind.

I shuddered and then bounded out to help, hoping some activity would warm me up.  But I was too late, the activity had come to a halt, the job was finished until the rain abated. And so there I stood in the clearing, stomping my feet in the mud to stay warm as heavy drops continued to fall.  David, seeing my sorry state, pulled a thermal blanket from his pack and wrapped it around my shoulders, ushering me under a tarp where other heroes squatted, sharing body heat and waiting out the storm. And he threw his big arm around me and hugged me until the chill and the rain subsided.  It was a brotherly moment like no other, a lesson in vulnerability and strength, a gesture of love that I’ll not soon forget.

Jeff James_Tembea Na Mimi_2015_152When the rains subsided, we crawled out from beneath the tarp and began gathering survivors and gear. I worked extra hard to set up camp. I needed to warm up and I felt guilty for not carrying my weight and helping when the monsoon hit us. But what I’ve learned about groups and adventure challenges is that there are heroic moments for each person when a hidden strength is encountered, one not known before, tucked away somewhere behind the senses of panic and fear.  And then there are those vulnerable moments, when fatigue and dehydration have muddled your thoughts with waves of angst and poor decisions.  And so you must rely on others to help you survive.  The right group, one unified in a common goal and with a noble cause, allows for heroes to rise and fall like the tides, and the vulnerable to be carried in their fragile moments.

David seemed to ride the hero wave more often, however.  As I furiously erected my tent, trying to get the fly on before the rain returned, I looked around for David to see if he had a rock or something for pounding my tent stakes. There on the ground next to my tent was his pack, fully loaded, and his tent still unrolled.  Where did he go?  I then looked left and saw David and Michael hoisting Thea high into the air, like a patient on a bamboo stretcher.  She was flat on her back being placed feet first into her tent, a cocoon of dry warmth. I had not seen her since under the thorn tree, looking frail and cold through layers of gray rain.  But the cold had soaked in deeper and Thea was now in danger of hypothermia. Michael and David were saving her life. I flinched to help, but by the time I got there the job, once again, was done. Thea was tucked between a mound of sleeping bags and Michael was working on warming her feet and legs. David stood up,  an unassuming superman, unshaven and in safari clothes, looked once around the camp, a leader scanning for loose ends, and seeing none, headed over to set up his tent. He was the last man standing.

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The rain never returned, and because it’s Africa, the sun came out and warmed our spirits and dried our clothes.  Later that afternoon, I bought a half pint of moonshine from a local brewer, “chang’aa” as it’s called, and we sipped it in a circle and sang songs with dozens of children and villagers, the same that laughed and mocked us as we battled nature earlier – some more valiantly than others. Now the laughter was different; it was no longer a mocking laugh at our comedy of errors, but rather we laughed communally – some celebrating survival, some reveling in triumph, others in marvel over God’s good humor and grace … and some of us may have just been a little tipsy.

Looking back it probably would have been best to wear my rain jacket rather than give it to my camera.  It was a poor decision, sacrificing self for art.   But if I had chosen differently, worn my jacket and, like the heroes of that afternoon, battled beasts and nature for the common good, I would have missed that vantage point of witnessing David from under the thorn tree. And I would have missed the life-saving gestures of love given by a brother, offering warmth where there was none.  And I would have missed being able to sip moonshine, proudly knowing that my older brother is still my hero.

And I found myself wondering, as we walked to end poverty, if what communities really need is a unifying noble cause, a common goal, and a culture that allows heroes to rise and fall with the tides, providing care for the vulnerable in their weakest moments.

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A parked “piki-piki” makes for a good seat.
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David and James lead us through savanna land in the north Mara conservancy.
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At rest along the road, Amanda, David, and Robbie.
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Around camp on the Migori airstrip.
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David greets the day and villagers with a friendly wave as we embark on our final day of walking.
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Peter and David at rest in the Mara.
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David shares videos and photos with schoolchildren who ran to meet us along the road.
Scouting lions in the Mara.
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Brothers, Kisumu Airport

 

 

Jeff & Hillary JamesThe Rise and Fall of Heroes, Part 8 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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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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