Adjusting to The Climate

I cannot recall if I have been clear about the fact that Bruce took my sister, Rebekah to Kenya last February. I was unable to go because of school and work obligations. Thus, our trip included many of the same elements as their previous excursion. (One glaring exception being that I was never afforded the opportunity to attend a funeral and make a speech as my sister did.)

Rebekah had told me many wonderful things about Lake Baringo. They took a boat tour there with a guide named Fox, which she assured me was a cannot-miss experience. I was ready.

The trip itself to Lake Baringo was very scenic. We pulled over to take in this spectacular view of the Rift Valley.

Photo courtesy of Bruce.

It was evening by the time we reached our hotel, which to my delight had both toilets and electricity.   However, there were not enough rooms/beds available and so James went down the road to a somewhat less modern establishment, which he assured was quite satisfactory for him. We feasted on fish and chips and went to bed.

At this point I feel obliged to warn you that the rest of the post is mostly an account of Bruce and I becoming sick. I have left out the more graphic details as so not to offend the sensibilities of anyone in my small readership. However, if you are particularly sensitive to these types of things you may stop reading here, pretend that we had a wonderful time at Lake Baringo and did not encounter food poisoning of any kind. I like to pretend that too. 

The next morning, Monica and I met James for breakfast at the hotel restaurant but Bruce had not emerged from his room. James finally went to check on him and discovered that he was ill. A boat tour was clearly out the question for him, but he urged us to go on without him and find Fox.

We found Fox, settled on a price for the tour, strapped on some life jackets (the purpose of which the Kenyans were certain I did not know and were careful to explain) and climbed aboard the boat.  Just as we pushed off from land I felt an unwelcome twinge of queasiness in my stomach. It was beginning.

Our fearless captain Fox and James, the first mate.

Let me start by saying that the boat tour was awesome. Fox is a very knowledgable tour guide and Lake Baringo is beautiful and full of wildlife and unique cultural experiences. However, I can't help but think it might have been a more enjoyable two hours had the threat of diarrhea-ing in my trousers not seemed to becoming more and more imminent.

I bravely soldiered on and captured the following pictures:

This is the crocodile we fed, the sight of whose jaws snapping almost sent James tumbling out the other side of the boat.

Pretty tree full of pretty birds and nests. 

Fox called these the "tuxedo birds". 

The tour finally concluded, we docked the boat and headed back toward the toilet hotel. But then someone had the wonderful idea that we should visit the snake park before we went back. I tried to protest in a polite, Midwestern sort of way.

"I'm really not feeling well, maybe you could just leave me at the hotel."
"Ahh, you will feel better."

Snake park it was.

I have no pictures of that part of the day. All of my energy was focused on keeping the contents of my stomach from escaping.

Bruce was not feeling any better when at last we returned to the hotel. I made half a dozen trips to the bathroom and still felt awful. Finally we decided we needed to leave in order to get back to Nakuru at a decent hour. Our Kenyan hosts assured us that we were just adjusting to the climate.

At one point on the way back, Bruce made James pull the car over so he could vomit on the side of the road. "Now you will feel better!" the Kenyans exclaimed. It most have been somewhat true, because Bruce decided we should stop and take our picture by this equator sign. I felt and looked terrible. We were bombarded by hawkers trying to sell us their goods. My feeble smiles and "no thank you's" quickly deteriorated to "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I DO NOT WANT TO BUY ANYTHING!"

Bruce was feeling somewhat refreshed after puking out his guts. 

When we got back to James's house, Sharon was preparing what must have been the equivalent of a Christmas feast. I feverishly stumbled to bed and buried my face in a pillow in a futile attempt to escape the aroma of food cooking. An hour or so later there was a knock on our door. 

"Sarah! Come eat!" Even in the face of great illness Kenyans never lose their appetites, nor their sense of hospitality. 

"Uh, no thank you," I mumbled.

"Eat! You will feel better!"

At this point Bruce kindly bellowed something to indicate that we were incapable of food consumption and that sent them on their way.

Periodically, I ventured to the squatty-potty for another bout of diarrhea. I wanted to throw up in the worst possible way. I am sure that it was equal parts comical and pathetic to see me crouched in the front yard in the middle of the night, a soft rain falling, as I quietly moaned every disgusting thing I could think of, hoping that it would help me puke. "Bologna!" "Brussels sprouts!" "Vodka!" Alas, nothing. 

The next day our sickness had subsided to minor queasiness. My middle-of-the-night trips to the squatty potty had left me with a sense of mastery over the system and for the remainder of the trip I hardly noticed the absence of porcelain toilets. While the whole ordeal seemed pretty terrible at the time (Bruce stated that on the road back to Nakuru he would have given $20,000 to be teleported back to Kansas), we survived. Not only that, we survived with clean pants. And in Africa sometimes that's all you can hope for.  

Bright Futures

Sometimes when I am feeling as though I have no direction in my life, I fondly recall Monica, who at one year older than me has already established her own school. It does nothing to ease my anxiety. 

Monica has always dreamed of being a teacher. She is a very good one too, as she demonstrated by drilling her class on domestic animals for our benefit. Her eager pupils' hands shot up at once. "Horse!" "Pig!" "Cow!" "Rat!"

Due to poor planning on our part, we arrived in Kenya just as the private schools were closing for their break. When Monica told her students that we were coming, but they would be on holiday they begged her to keep the school open a few extra days. Being the nice teacher/school director she is, she extended the school term. Some of the kids stayed home, having already completed their exams. Let's be real, in those circumstances I would have been right there with them. I was astonished by how many came voluntarily to see "the old white man" and his daughter.

As is typical of everywhere you go in Kenya, Monica had the students perform some poems and songs for the entertainment of their visitors. I always marvel at the sharp memories of Kenyan students- they probably know more poems than Robert Frost.  Here's a small sampling of what we enjoyed at Bright Futures Academy.

Please note the sour expression of the third child from the left. His face never changed. He was a boy after my own heart, but I could not stop laughing at the pictures.

Here's a shot of the entire school, guests and teachers. And yes, those are the classrooms behind.

Adorable little girl recites poem. See if you can spot our gloomy friend.

Another poem reciter and her captive audience.

The next leg of the journey was without question the most harrowing, but of course we did not anticipate that at the time. Had I known what was coming next, I probably would have staked out a nice spot on that grass and listened to poems for a full week. But I didn't know. And so I got into the car with James, Bruce and Monica and headed for Lake Baringo.