Rafiki Tanzania had been completed
for only a short time, and only had high school age walk-ins
currently. They were preparing for the babies. The first group would
all be babies, and the next year, as they grew, another group of
babies would enter.
The bus pulled up at the border,
stopping on the Kenya side. It was a hectic, confusing place. People
of every nationality, color, and tongue crowded into those small
offices. We stood in very long lines to show our visa. Mostly, they
just let everybody figure it out themselves. Barbara and I got help
from a very tall, blonde German woman, who spoke very good English.
Somehow, in the lines Emily got separated from us. We finished first,
and headed back to the bus. The driver said he had to drive the bus
to the other side, and the remaining passengers would walk across.
Emily finished, walked back to the bus, and It was gone. She was in
panic, momentarily, then thought, "Barbara and Pat would never
let that bus leave me in this awful place." She was right. She
finally located the bus.
We arrived at Moshe, and were
picked up by the village director, Deb, a very nice lady from Texas.
Rafiki, a few miles out, was shiny new, Surrounded by a tall wire
fence. It was not as secure as our rock wall, but each house was a
fortress in its own right. They were brick, with heavy metal grates
over all the windows and doors. A beautiful mansion stood on a hill
nearby. I asked who lived there. "Oh, that's the African Mafia,"
Deb said.
The majesty of Kilimanjaro did not
appear until later in the day. When the top did begin to show, we had
to raise our eyes up higher to see it than we would have ever
thought, far above the cloud layer. Words can't describe it, so I
won't even try. Kilimanjaro is 19,000 feet high, the tallest free
standing mountain in the world. It is snow capped, standing on the
Equator. Deb had hiked it years before, a four day climb, the last
day being through hellish arctic conditions. A guide service was a
requirement, and it was very expensive. We were far too old, and way
too poor, and not enough time.
Deb took us to Moshe, to show us
around. The stores were very inexpensive, selling unbelievable
things, but carrying them home is another matter. For lunch, we ate Somosas, a
triangular shaped meat pie. Very good.
Native women, hair cut to the
scalp, huge earrings hanging far down, in brightly colored wraps
walked the streets. They carried large round platters filled with a
very large load of bananas Barbara longed to photo them, but felt
that would be impolite. Kilimanjaro produces a moist micro climate in
Moshe, in this dry, arid bushland that is East Africa.
An old house beside the village
housed 15 teenagers who go to school there. They make fantastic
crafts to pay the rent. Barbara bought note cards, made from Banana leaves. We can look at them, but never figure out how they did that.
We went to church on Sunday with
Deb. It was different, but we have the same God. A man and three
women walked around, singing different parts of Christ's resurrection.
It was very powerful.
We all drank from the large silver
cup for communion. That part of the service was identical to that of
St. Andrews church in Little Rock.
The Tall blonde German woman who
befriended us at the border was there, and she turned out to be a
friend of Deb's. She was a missionary, and spoke 8-10 languages.
Driving out of town, we saw a
hospital that was named after Rosemary Jensen's husband, Dr. Bob.
Yeen Lan called us the last day.
We were able to tell her we had seen the top of Kilimanjaro every
day, a rare event She told us she had prayed for us to see the
mountain in all its glory. She said some people stay there for weeks
without ever seeing the top. Don't doubt that Yeen Lan has those
connections. I personally believe Yeen Lan is an African legend in
the making. If we live long enough, many people will be enthralled to
find we actually know her.
We got bad news just before
heading back to Kenya. Deb told us our visa was a one way thing, and
we would have to buy another to cross the border back into Kenya, at
$100 each. No way around it, that's just how it's done. We didn't
have that much on us, and only cash could be used.
Deb insisted on cashing a personal
check of ours before we left. Barb seemed confident we would never
need that money, I wasn't so sure, and I took Deb up on her offer.
But, as I well knew, its very easy to under estimate Barbara's
abilities, when it comes to public relations.
On the bus headed out, we saw many
small, circular compounds in the bush. Mud and cow manure huts were
surrounded by a high fence of thorns. Most were unoccupied. The
Masai, with their herds of cattle, mules and goats, just went
wherever the grazing was in this dry, arid land. The donkeys were
used to haul containers of muddy water from sources that might be
many miles away.
Drinking water was a real problem
there. The Masai often had to drink from the same source the cattle
had been in, a very bad thing in Africa. Many people die because of
the water. Modern water wells and filtering systems could save many
lives there.
Young boys herded the goats.
"Isn't that dangerous?" I had asked. "Yes, we do lose
boys often." Those who survive and become a man are a very
formidable force, with only a spear, in protecting their herds.
Traditionally, a young Masai man
has to draw first blood in the killing of a lion to become a man. One
young warrior showed me how this was done.
When a lion stalks their animals,
four or five warriors track it down. They surround it, each with a
spear and a cowhide shield. The young warrior seeking to become a man
confronts it. When the lion charges, he braces the back of the spear
with his foot, points the spear at the charging lion. If things go
well, the lion will be impaled, and the warrior crouches behind the
cowhide shield. Other warriors then move in and help. This is
technically not legal now, but many older men still show many scars from
the day they became a man.
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