“Kenya? Africa? You know people there?” I accuse.
“Yup!” he practically shouts. “They are Doctors Gerry and Nancy Hardison. Gerry was my chief resident in medical school. They run a hospital and some program with orphans, I think. Actually, Ian has given some thought to going over,” he advises. Ian is his son and essentially an unofficial member of our family, if the number of meals he’s taken with us over the years is any criteria for unauthorized adoption.
“What do I have to do to go? What’s required? How much? Do you know?” I blather. I can tell by his squinched look that he is working on dredging up the fuzzy details, determined to give me the straight scoop.
“I honestly don’t remember there being any specific requirements. You see, Ian is considering going,” he reminds me.
Ian. I love Ian. Always have. But “Ian going” does not a big thumbs-up for the venture make; quite the opposite, in fact. Ian is a spirited, gifted, twenty-something, sweet, quirky man-child. Our family has had many interesting experiences with him over the years, even attempting some moderately adventurous trips with him in tow. But under the best of circumstances I can only take him in small doses. The rest of our household typically suffers his colossal energy output much better than I do, and Ian is well aware of this. “Uh, I’m gonna leave now. I think your mom needs a little Ian-break,” I once overheard him, sagely and quite accurately I might add, cautioning our son. Regardless, to know Ian is to love him, even if sometimes from a distance. His dad promises that he will have Ian call me with the information. He does not call. He comes, climbs over our deck wall, with dripping surfboard under his arm, and strolls soaking wet right into our living room.
“Hi Pami! Can I have a bowl of cereal?” he announces his presence. I yell at him to dry off, order him to leave his board outside, and then make him breakfast. Between mouthfuls, Ian spews lively tidbits of excited facts about the Hardisons and their program. “I’m going, too!” he announces, grinning through soggy flakes. “We’re going to have so much fun!” Africa . . . an AIDS hospital . . . starving orphans. Fun isn’t the term I’d have chosen to describe our prospective adventure but whatever it is destined to be we are evidently in it together. Truth be told, Ian and I do wind up having fun and more than our share of escapades. But that comes later. First, we have to get ourselves to Africa.
Actually, Surfer Dude hasn’t come over merely cold and hungry. He has also come prepared. Burying his stringy blond head in his funky backpack, Ian extracts a DVD about the Maseno Project, the Hardison’s program in Kenya, and flaps it around like it is a winning lottery ticket. I spread a towel on the computer chair in my office and after Ian finishes eating, we watch the DVD together. I’d be lying if I said there weren’t a few marginally disturbing aspects to the presentation, like little children lined up singing religious songs for the camera. That, along with Nan Hardison’s aggrieved face and her husband’s persnickety one. Ian and I exchange the occasional concerned glance but our excitement dampens any reservations. Ian confirms that the invitation is open. We will be provided with room and board for a modest five dollars a day, and he knows of no real restrictions or conditions otherwise. However, in view of the past months of discouraging research, I am determined to scope it out for myself. I jot down the doctors’ contact information and am surprised to learn that they are presently stateside. They have come back for medical appointments, to do some fund-raising, and gathering of volunteers. For the remainder of the month, they will be ensconced in their little apartment in Ocean Beach, just a couple of miles from my home. I call and we make an appointment to meet.
It isn’t hard to find the Hardisons’ cottage. I am familiar with the area, a green oceanfront community of quaint little batches overflowing with aging hippies and young hopefuls. When I arrive, before I can even knock, a tall, rangy, elderly, but decidedly handsome man in faded dungarees and flannel shirt, opens the door. His startlingly brilliant eyes grab me and hang on as I extend my hand for the formal introductions. “Gerry” (pronounced Gary), he rasps with a flicker of a grin.
“Doctor,” I reply, not ready yet to drop the formalities. “I’m Pam.”
“Um hmm,” he gruffs over his stooped, yet durable shoulder as he leads me into the house. Once inside, I am able to take only a couple of baby steps. The room is a confusion of books, papers, and what appears to be other miscellaneous junk. In the middle of the clutter, an area has been cleared with four chairs—two straight backs and two rockers—placed close together in a semi-circle. An absolutely angelic-looking (no kidding) woman sits rigidly in the more substantial rocking chair.
“Hi, I’m Nan,” she croons brightly but without rising. “Forgive me dear. I’ve hurt my neck and I can’t seem to move it,” she apologizes.
Nan looks to be in her seventies, has shoulder-length gray hair pulled straight back from her face with one of those plastic, faux tortoiseshell half-headbands that came ten to a package for a quarter when I was a girl. She wears a lacy white blouse with embroidered flowers on the bodice and a flowing, full-length, pleated, blazing apricot skirt. On her feet she is wearing scuffed brown, orthopedic-looking old-lady sandals. Her toenails are painted little-girl pink. Her eyes are translucent blue and as piercing as her husband’s, but they have mischief in them that leaps out like a surprise. Her apple cheeks are as red as frosted roses on a cake. Dr. Nancy Hardison looks like a party. I feel drawn to lean in and hug her but she holds me at bay, pointing to the strange, spongy-looking, crescent-shaped blob around her neck.
“It’s filled with warm lavender,” she gushes, “to soothe the tender muscles. Can you smell it?” Indeed I can and indicate so by inhaling deeply and bobbing my head up and down. Then she directs me to sit in the straight-back chair nearest her as Gerry settles into the rocker directly across from us. “We’re expecting another guest,” Nan explains, while stiffly nodding toward the other straight back. “But we should visit, get to know one another until he gets here.”
Just like that, Doctors Nancy and Gerry Hardison have become Nan and Gerry to me. I am hugely encouraged. Anticipating spending an extended period of time in a dark and distant land while being mentored by these fine folk suddenly seems totally doable. But I’m not there yet. I hold my notebook full of questions and my pen poised to jot down helpful hints in preparation for the venture. Nan, however, assures me that she’s seen to it that I receive a form letter with the requisite details. So we relax and begin to chat like old friends. Noting Nan’s lively costume, I inquire what I should bring to wear in Africa.
“Well, not that!” she exclaims with a great deal more gusto than she’s exhibited thus far in the conversation. She is pointing accusingly and rather distastefully at the sweat shorts and T-shirt I’ve worn over. “Women do not show skin in Kenya, Pam. Modest blouses and mid-calf-length skirts are the norm. And you should plan on leaving them as a donation when you leave.”
“Oh, gosh,” I utter, shrinking sheepishly, straining to tuck my long legs, bare practically to the crotch, beneath the punishing chair.
“And they don’t wear pants,” Nan scolds on. “Anyway, skirts make it easier to pee!” she squeals with laughter, wrenching her stiff neck in her merriment. For the life of me, I am lost with this last comment and must look it because she carries on shamelessly. “There are virtually no bathrooms or toilets anywhere,” she elucidates. “We squat over ‘long drops’ in Kenya, deep holes that are natural waste receptacles. It’s so much more convenient to just hike up a hem!” She is thoroughly entertaining herself, I can tell, and it is contagious.
“Well, I’ve brought you a copy of my book, a true story of my sailing around the world. In it, I describe how at sea we used to just heft our bare bums up over the stern of our ship to do our business,” I brag.
“Oh, my. I’ll certainly look forward to reading it. You shouldn’t have any trouble in Kenya then. Not as long as you have a skirt on,” she promises and warns magically, all in one breath.
I feel a little better, although I’m still not sure where or if undergarments fit into the long drop equation. But I figure I’ll have occasion aplenty to find out. As we talk, Gerry sits quietly, lanky legs crossed, wiry arms folded