Ian is irrepressible. He chatters on about some friend of his mother’s who is teaching him Swahili. “Pami, you can come too!” As for his travel plans and travel insurance, “Same as yours, Pami!” And the stuff he is collecting to bring for the Kenyan children: deflated soccer balls, tiny surfer clothes, even tinier ‘skater’ shoes. He is stoked. Ian has spent the last year working in a hospital and earning his EMT certification. He fully expects to be of use to Doctor Gerry Hardison and is bringing along all the necessary accoutrements such as white button-down shirts, long slacks, stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, etc. His enthusiasm is boundless and I feel proud to know him. Exhausted, but proud.
My son’s recently retired globe-trotting backpack is going to be my only piece of luggage. It’s pretty hefty but I know if I’m going to get everything I want to bring for the orphans—for example, the flip-flops, crayons, notebooks, candy, etc.—I am going to have to pack very conservatively. I plan to bring only a couple pairs of cotton panties, a couple sports bras, two pairs of flip-flops, one set of long johns, one sweatshirt, and one of my husband’s old work shirts to sleep in. I’ll travel in my roughing-it expedition uniform, which is comprised of my worn fatigue-type pants with many deep pockets, light white T-shirt, and bright yellow vest. Then I’ll have those items there with me as well. But I still need my daily-wear costumes, the modest outfits that were firmly suggested by Nan. Keeping in mind that I am to pack as though I am leaving everything behind, I know precisely where to do my missionary-attire shopping.
The drugstores whose pharmacies are under the supervision of my husband always carry a random rack or two of what look like old hippie-style separates like psychedelically hued peasant blouses and long flouncy skirts. The fashion has never been my best look but I know it’ll be perfection for Kenya—lightweight, cool, compressible, cheap. I grab three or four of both tops and bottoms without even trying them on or matching them up. Who will I be dressing for? The total damage, with my husband’s employee discount, is a whopping forty dollars.
My checklist is getting checked off. I have the basic necessities covered. There are other details I could obsess over, more material I could learn, extra gear I could bring. But I imagine that I’ll be able to make do with what I have or grab what I need on the fly. I feel pretty good to go! Even my faculties are sharpening into adventure mode. The daily exploration of unknown territory and the deciphering of mysteriously encoded exchanges with my mental-acuity-challenged morning companion is helping to inure me to the intellectual demands I’ll face while living as a stranger in a strange land. And my old gumption that has been busting a gut to get loose for a quarter century is now ever present, even at three a.m. when I lurch wide awake from my warm bed in a cold sweat and blurt out, “What the hell am I thinking?” It’s not that I’m having serious personal reservations. It is simply that moms tend to worry that their families will implode without them. As it happens, I find that I am not in the least fearful for myself. In fact, I discover that I’m as game as ever to take this next leap of faith. The “yee-hah!” exhilaration of climbing out to life’s edge has never entirely died out in me. It’s merely been lying dormant beneath a meticulously constructed, implied housewife persona, a twenty-five year stint of nurturing-mother prioritizing for which I have absolutely no regrets. Everything has turned with the seasons, as they should. And a bygone time has finally come back around, although to what purpose under heaven remains to be seen.
That being said, this go-for-it attitude of mine does pose a psychological incongruity that I do have some measure of difficulty coming to terms with. I am experiencing a powerful, altruistic desire to “go help starving children, be a blessing in the world, touch just one life,” with a hefty side of, “travel, have an adventure, get out there, prove you can still do it,” purely selfish thrill-craving. Like a cup of warm milk with a Wild Turkey chaser. I don’t want to go without my husband but I want to know that I can. I don’t need to fly halfway around the globe to be benevolent but I do need to get back out into the big world. I have no concrete conception of what I am moving toward but the lure of the unknown pulls me like an old familiar drug. There is nothing in my life to escape from and yet the passive act of staying put evokes despairing thoughts of, “Oh, if this is all I’m going to do, then just shoot me now!” Some things never change. This is still the same me, just me a little older, me a little slower, me jetting off to Kenya . . . with Ian.
I have to say that having one of my children’s schoolmates in on my personal journey of self-reinvention wasn’t in my blueprint. I fear Ian will disrupt my somewhat anal and scrupulously economical organization. I am packing the bare minimum, just what I think I can get by with; for example, one handful of laundry tabs, one small two-in-one bottle of concentrated shampoo/conditioner, one bar of soap, one package of antibacterial wipes separated into several neat little plastic snack bags, and one box of energy bars. One! I envision Ian bumming a tab for his rank clothes, a dab for his cruddy hair, some suds for his grimy bod, a swipe for his germy mitts, a bite for his grumbly tummy. And will I deny him, scold him for being unprepared, admonish him for being selfish, berate him for blowing my cover and outing me as “the mom person” I am endeavoring to leave behind? Never. I am resigned and actually curious to discover how it will all play out between us. When his folks implore me to please look after Ian for them, I tell them that we will look after each other, figuring that I can at least keep myself off the liability hook to that extent. Truth be told, Ian and I do look after each other. We both prove to be ready, savvy, daring, caring, and gung-ho—intrinsically different, independent explorers embarking on a journey to discover our separate ways—together. And what grander venue could we dream up in which to have at it than extreme Africa.
The Dark Continent looms outrageous and I find we are not permitted not to be outraged. The media blitz has played on this brilliantly. Case in point, I gamely truck on over to a little godforsaken corner of Kenya. Enter my story—timely, unique, honest, important, shocking, and first-person true.
Chapter Three - The Compound:
I feel bad that I don’t feel worse.
Michael Frayn
The puddle jumper that flies me over from Nairobi touches down at a scrappy airstrip on the outskirts of Kisumu, the third largest city in Kenya. I’m the only non-African aboard. Half of the dozen other passengers squeeze out onto the tarmac ahead of me, while the remaining bunch presses tightly on my tail. Punch-drunk giddy, I emerge from the plane like the gooey cream center of an Oreo. The flight has taken less than an hour but it has made an indelible impression on me. It was barely daylight when the plane took off. The pilot flew low enough that with my face glued to my miniature, warped, plastic window, I was able to spot majestic Mount Kenya off in the brightening dawn. I also made out dusky herds of wild creatures lazily traversing their way along the undulating, flame-speckled yellow and felt-green highway that could have only been the Great Rift Valley. “Pami, girl,” I whispered in hushed awe of the legendary landscape “you really are in Africa.”
Nancy Hardison is waiting to collect me. I spot her standing behind a gated area some fifty yards away. She is poised with her head thrown back, her arms stretched wide, and a radiant smile to match. Her pretty pastel skirt and blouse ripple in the sultry breeze and her noble crown of dull-blond-tinted, gray hair is mussed and flying loose from its pins. She looks pleased as punch . . . and is the only other Caucasian as far