Carolyn Koepke, from the US, was
the Children's Director, and being a nurse by profession, she had
been elevated to everyone's doctor, once here. If we broke a leg, or
had a major illness, we would be flown to the US. Carolyn and Doug
had been here for many years. He had been a mechanic in the US. They
just walked away from it, one day, and never looked back.
Doug ran the physical plant, all
the repairs, woodworking, and metal working. And he taught those
things to the boys. Their children grew up here, with a 2 week trip
back to the US each year. They raised their own financing, through
mail outs and visits to churches when back in the States.
Barbara worked under Carolyn, in a
number of capacities. They knew she was a photographer, but never
knew how good she was until she got there. The missionaries all were
thrilled, as someone said, "She's a professional, and her work
looks like it!" She was quickly given the job of photographing
every child, for their permanent records, and furnishing the seven
permanent missionaries with photos for their fund raising speeches
and mail outs.
Doug kept the cars going, the
water supply good, the electricity flowing. I worked with him,
mostly. There was no hardware store to go to with a need. If it was
not brought from America on Doug's yearly trip home, we made it. I
spent the whole day once, cutting rubber gaskets for the water supply
system from and inner tube. I also taught basketball to all the kids,
and an occasional science class.
Barbara and I both read to
children after lunch that had been so badly damaged in their early
life that they seldom, or never, talked, or smiled. When a
breakthrough with one of these kids came, and Barbara had several, it
was an indescribable experience, one to be treasured a lifetime.
Barbara read daily to Moses. He
could talk but rarely would although he was now six. Moses was still
in some trauma over the conditions he lived in before coming to
Rafiki. Soon, he would be eagerly awaiting Barbara at the reading
bench, smiling with book in hand, and would nestle up close as she
read. In spite of her best efforts to get him to talk, he just
wouldn't, week after week.
One day, as Barbara walked him
back to his house, he stopped, looked into her eyes, and said, "At
night I pray for you." Barbara has just never gotten over that
event, and cannot tell about it to this day without tears. And she
often does.
Yeen Lan Lam is the village
director, nearing middle age, and very much in charge. She ran the
place with a firm hand, but could be gentle when the occasion called
for it. She was extremely protective of Barbara and me. She knew the
many dangers of Africa, we did not. She worked very hard to make our
stay perfect, complete with a trip each weekend, either free to us or
at a greatly reduced price. She always provided us with a car and
driver. Our four day Safari was about one third the usual cost. She
had a lot of influence around Nairobi, and could always just get
things done.
Once her driver ran over a goat
and killed it in Nairobi. An angry crowd gathered. The driver was
crying, "They're going to kill me." Vigilante justice ruled
the African streets, and this was a widow's goat.
Yeen Lan got out of the car, and
said to the crowd, "Bring the owner of the goat to me." The
widow soon appeared. "What is the value of the goat?" The
owner told her, and she immediately paid it. Seeing a Rafiki worker
in the crowd, she asked, "John, do you want this goat?"
John jumped right on that. Meat was rare. The widow shouted, "No!
That's my goat." Yeen Lan explained, "You told me the
value, and I bought it from you. It then became my goat, to do with
as I please." End of story.
The children of the missionaries,
once they were too old for the school at Rafiki, were driven across
Nairobi each day to an International School. The UN presence in
Nairobi was second only to
America, and children from all
countries went there.
The far side of Nairobi was a
modern, nice city. On our side, it was totally different. Like two
entirely different worlds side by side.
Barbara and I were each assigned
a different table to eat at each meal, so that we eventually ate with
all the children. They loved it. They soon learned to read the
schedule, and we were always greeted upon walking in by, "Uncle
Pat! You're eating at our table today!"
These children ate what other
Africans ate. They were being raised as Africans. Beans, peas, and
lentils most commonly, or whatever a farmer had donated, or Rafiki
had raised. Ugali served as a filler. It consisted of corn flour and
water, boiled. No seasoning or anything. Ugali was shaped into a cake
and sliced. Maybe a Passion fruit for desert, some sort of meat maybe
once a week.
By American standards, it was
just, well, bad. But everybody ate every bite that was on their
plate, every time. Including us. I once saw a very interesting thing
take place. Barbara was about to eat the last bite of food on her
plate. It was a chunk of ugali. The children at her table were all
watching her, as always. As she approached her mouth with the bite, a
grimace like I have never seen on her face appeared. As she put it in
her mouth, a gag was coming up as the food went down. But she kept it
down, and soon brought out a smile for the children.
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