Death, Birth, and the Quest for Immortality

It's been about five years since my dad died. Among the multitude of thoughts and feelings this caused was an increased awareness of my own eventual death. This is, I think, a natural part of grieving a parent. There's now a gap where the generation between me and death used to exist. A buffer that guarantees nothing in terms of actual life and death, but still feels significant.

I was elated to learn that I would be a dad. Well, first I was confused because I thought Kate was showing me a Covid test. But shortly after the confusion wore off I was really excited. Over the months that followed, I also noticed that those pesky reminders of my own mortality kept creeping up. Granted, my body did a fine job of reminding me as well. Almost exactly a year before Kate told me we would be having a baby, I had a stroke. Thankfully the cause was identified and a minor heart surgery corrected the issue. Still the heart and the brain are two pretty important organs, and both of mine had failed me, if only in a small way. It was more than enough to expose once again what a thin line there is between existing and not.

So into that backdrop comes this new, still unnamed addition. I've felt him move under my hand and kick at the sound of my voice. We have a relationship. More importantly, I will soon have a much bigger share of the responsibility for keeping him alive. And, as the old airline safety demonstration reminds us, in order to provide assistance to others, we must first care for ourselves.

You might think the next paragraph is about how I've changed everything about my life in order to preserve it. Nope. You might also think that this realization is so anxiety-provoking that I've been paralyzed. Not quite. Instead I'm sort of toggling between two things: being fully present and cognizant and appreciative of the current moment, and keeping in mind how my in-the-moment decisions shape my future health. And all the while, I'm remembering the great Dr. Perry Cox, reminding me that everything I'm doing is a stall...just trying to keep the game going. 

So, a day before fatherhood hits home for real, this is where I am. Balancing the moment with the future. Drinking lots of water and getting my heart rate up a little and walking with the dogs and eating some things that are good for me. Preparing myself for a long future, and keeping my focus in the present moment. And smiling big, because I'm still in the game.

The Inca Trail to Machu Picchu

From October 2nd to October 5th, Kate and I hiked the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. It was one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life. We also had a LOT of help getting there. I wanted to spend a little time describing the hike, including all the people involved in dragging us up and over a few mountains, to one of the most iconic views in the world.

We met our guide, Alex, at the airport in Cusco. He was our guide for our entire time in Peru, and was tasked with both showing us all the sites, and making sure we acclimated well to the elevation. He was encouraging, informative, and really funny. 

 

During the hike, we had a daypack that we kept with us all day. Mostly we carried water, snacks, and whatever layers of clothing we might want during the day. And of course, a towel. All the heavy stuff was carried by a team of porters, known in the local Quechua language as Waykis, which means "friends." Our friends toted all our stuff up and down the mountains, set up and took down our tents, prepared all our meals, and absolutely flew past us on the trail. 

The first day we started the hike after 10AM because of local elections. In Peru, voting is mandatory, and the waykis were apparently very motivated to vote. So they went to vote early in the morning, and then met us at the trailhead. This was an "easy" day in terms of the hike, so it was the best day to get a late start. We stopped for a late lunch, and got our first taste of Chef Juan Carlos's cuisine. Guys, I had really low expectations for Peruvian camping food, and I was absolutely blown away. First, he made soups for every lunch and dinner, and they were universally excellent. Second, soup is a course, not a meal in Peru. So we had warm, delicious soup, and then a whole other meal, usually with a dessert. Also, we had "tea," which may as well have been another meal. We eventually had to beg him to make less food, though thankfully the waykis finished off whatever we didn't eat. Ok, just look at this meal, and look at the tent and propane tank he used to prepare meals. Extra bonus points for the drizzle of ketchup with the chicken. If Chef Juan Carlos opened a restaurant here, I would camp out again to be first in line to eat there. 

Day 2 was the hardest day of hiking, in terms of terrain and elevation. The highest point was about 13,800 feet high, and was pretty intensely uphill to that point. Because the trail was made to ease the travel of royalty, who did not walk it themselves, many of the steps were large stone steps. While this was probably easier than loose gravel, it was definitely not the most forgiving option. This was equally true while going downhill, and especially if it's wet. (That's called foreshadowing). Day 2 ended with a beautiful view, which we were able to enjoy while sitting in our dining tent, for tea and then almost immediately afterwards for dinner.

Guess what happened on Day 3? We went almost all downhill, and it rained almost the entire day! We were prepared with rain jackets and plastic ponchos, but it was still a tough day. Going downhill is so much more unpleasant on joints, and we had to go slow to avoid wiping out. The fear of falling was magnified more than a little by some of the narrow parts of the trail. But we continued to have amazing views when the clouds cleared for us. When we made it to the last base camp, we immediately climbed into our tent and put on dry clothes. We were staying in there to wait out the rain, when we heard Alex call to us, letting us know it was clear and the views were pretty good. Understatement of the trip.We had great views in all directions, but especially a look at Machu Picchu Mountain, where we would be arriving the next day!

Additionally, after our last dinner on the trail, Chef Juan Carlos managed one more surprise. First, they brought out a lovely bottle of Malbec for us to share. And then they produced this beauty of an anniversary cake. In addition to being lovely and delicious, I want you to recall the previous picture of the "kitchen" they were working in. I cannot overstate how impressive these guys were. We got the chance to get to know them a little bit, with Alex translating for us, and they were universally kind and amazingly helpful. As hard as the hiking was for us, I cannot imaging trying to do it without all the help we received from them.

On the morning of day 4, we said goodbye to our waykis first thing. Some of them were tasked with getting our stuff to the hotel in Machu Picchu Pueblo. Others were going to hurry to catch a morning train back home. They were very pleased that we were early risers, so they could pack up and get on the move. We were also able to say good morning to a pack of llamas that spent the night at the base camp. This included one baby llama, pictured below. At about 3AM, we heard one of the strangest sounds I've ever encountered. In the morning, the waykis confirmed for us that it was the sound of a fox, likely in the neighborhood trying to find that baby. I'll tell you what, it was close. But the baby survived at least one more night, and was pretty darn cute. 

There was a part of me that unfortunately started to feel relief early in this last day. It was still an incredibly full day, and the terrain did not become more forgiving. The only noticeable improvements were the lack of rain and the gradual descent. Breathing became a bit easier, which made it much less challenging to loudly complain about the pain in my knees. Just before reaching the Sun Gate, where we would get our first glimpse of Machu Picchu, we had to climb "the monkey steps." This was a series of 50+ stairs that were significantly more vertical than previous stairs had been. We handed our trekking poles off to Alex, and climbed up using our hands to make sure we didn't fall. At the top, we were both very grateful we wouldn't have to return that way. Then Alex bounded up behind us like the showoff we had grown to expect.

Not long after conquering that monster, we were through the Sun Gate and got our first look down at Machu Picchu. As before, we were fooled into thinking we were finished, when in fact we had more hours to go. But the view was incredible, and the sense of accomplishment was starting to set in.

After wading through a field of llamas, we arrived at Machu Picchu itself. We were able to walk around a little bit, and take the touristy photos everyone gets. We also walked with some of the folks who were doing the 1-day trek, and listened to them talk about how hard it was and how tired they felt. We judged them harshly, especially the young ones, and reveled in both the beauty of the place and in our own superiority. 

Then it was off to town for a hot shower, a massage, and a dinner that was not quite as good as the ones Juan Carlos had been making for us. But we did celebrate with the national drink of Peru, the pisco sour. 

The next day, we were able to collect ourselves and return to the site, much better able to take in the details of what we were seeing. After over a week of visiting various Inca ruins, it was still amazing to see the scale of this construction. Some of the individual rocks must have taken weeks to carve and move. And the attention they gave to water, both procuring it and ensuring it safely moved through the site, is absolutely ridiculous. Somewhat less practically, they built multiple temples and places for animal sacrifices. Though the Inca were also well known for their knowledge of the stars. They studied the stars by putting water in stone bowls, and then looking at the reflection of the night sky in those smaller bowls. It was so important they devoted an entire room to it.

There is something extremely gratifying about the work it took to see what we saw. And even though there are easier ways to do it, I'm glad we took the full 4 days to experience all that we did leading up to Machu Picchu. The views of snow-capped Mt. Veronica, which we saw over several days, were particularly epic. Furthermore, Peru as a whole was wonderful. If we were even a little better with Spanish, I think we could easily stay for a month exploring more of the country. 

Below I'm posting a video Alex made of our trek, from beginning to end. It's been blocked in other places because of the music, so I don't know how long it will last here. But it's helpful to show the magnitude of the hike, and it's just fun to see it all while listening to AC/DC. No idea how long it will stay up, if it uploads at all, but it's too good not to give it a shot. If you don't see it, let me know and I'll send it your way. Thanks again to Alex, our drivers, and all our waykis who helped make this adventure possible.

On Turning 42 - And the Meaning of Life

Anyone who knows me knows that The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is practically gospel to me. Within that book, the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything is revealed to be 42...the problem being that nobody really defined the question. They tried to use "How many roads must a man walk down?" but ultimately the answer is left unquestioned, so to speak. At this point, those of you who get it, get it. For the rest of you, just trust me. Or go read the book! 

This year I turn 42, and I've been given some unique opportunities to reconsider what I think is the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything. In December, I had a very weird experience, which turned out to be a TIA. I had just gotten out of my car when I completely lost mobility in my right arm for about a minute. I pretty quickly regained strength and ended up going to the ER, where they found no evidence of any specific problem, but were confident that I did not have a stroke. Huzzah! They sent me for a bunch of outpatient tests, which were all coming back with no answers, and I was frankly starting to think it was just a fluky nervous system thing, or something going on in my shoulder joint. 

Then, last month while I was at work, I experienced a feeling of numbness in my face, and I was also unable to form complete sentences for a short time. I found this to be a fairly big deal. Thankfully I was able to go to the ER at the VA where I work (shoutout to those folks!), who transferred me to a local hospital. I spent the night and thought I was going to be headed home, but my new MRI showed a small stroke. Just for your own edification, language like "small stroke" sounds a whole lot different when it's YOUR stroke. 

Turns out, I have something called a patent foramen ovale (PFO), which is a small opening between the two upper chambers of the heart. This is something that is present for all of us prior to birth, and which seals up for the majority of folks when we're born (I've heard 75-80%, but I'm not that kind of doctor). For the rest of us, the PFO rarely causes any complications. You may have one yourself! And it's fine!! But in my case, clots were making their way from the right to the left side of my heart, bypassing the lungs that would normally help to filter them out, and making my brain do some genuinely upsetting things. Since the stroke, I've been taking aspirin and cholesterol medicine, and crossing my fingers that no new clots find their way into my brain. Gotta tell you, this is not my favorite aspect of modern medicine. Towards the end of this month, I'm going to have a "minor" surgery to implant a device in my heart that will block the PFO, and become part of my heart long-term. For those of you keeping score at home, that means I've now managed a small stroke and a minor heart surgery by 42! But the prognosis is very good, and life should return to normal very shortly. 

I decided to write this out for two primary reasons. 1: It turns out that this condition is much more common than I realized, and it's one of the leading causes of strokes in younger people. Since many of my dear friends and family are also younger people, I thought it was worth taking a minute to circulate this information. I'd encourage you to familiarize yourself with the symptoms of a stroke, and recognize that you are never too young to take those symptoms seriously. (This in spite of many people telling me that I'm too young for problems like this.). I'll slap a link on the bottom to make that process easier for you. 2: I don't like to ignore the universe reminding me that life is fragile and fleeting, and that I should set about joyfully thrashing my tail and discovering all I can about the world around me (like a whale brought to life above an alien planet), for as long as I'm able. 

With that in mind, I have every intention of continuing my now 5-year tradition of making birthday resolutions, trying to improve myself at every opportunity until my brain becomes mush. Even as I've kept this relatively private up until now, I've been surrounded with love and support. Poor Kate really thought she was going to get more than 3 good months out of our marriage, but she's sticking it out and trying not to let me do any more damage to myself. I'm pleased she hasn't tried to return me as defective (yet). I have the best family and friends a person could ask for, many of whom I very much did not ask for, but I'm lucky to have you anyway. I love you guys, and I'm looking forward to another trip around the sun. 

Oh, and what is the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything? Could it be that we each have to come up with a question for ourselves? 42. Nope, that doesn't work at all. Doesn't even make any sense. Oh well, off to walk down yet another road... 

https://www.stroke.org/en/about-stroke/stroke-symptoms

Happy Birthday, Dad

In April of 2018, my dad died of a type of kidney cancer that did not respond to any form of chemotherapy. I don’t mean that chemotherapy did not work, I mean it did not exist for this cancer. About a year and a half before that, he signed up for Medicaid for the first time.

Dad had quit his job and, as a result, stopped receiving his employee-sponsored health insurance. Before considering government assistance, he liquidated his retirement and paid out of pocket to stay on his previous healthcare plan. He decimated his savings to avoid taking money from the government, and partially to avoid the bureaucracy that came with applying for subsidies through Obamacare. But by 2017, he no longer had any savings or income, so he did not have that option. He started on Medicaid in January of that year, and in February was diagnosed with cancer for the first time. It is, without question, one of the most fortunate things that could have happened to him. You know, assuming he had to get cancer. All us taxpayers paid for my dad’s healthcare for the rest of his life.

Through Medicaid, he was eventually able to be transferred from our local hospital (St. Mary’s) to the Cleveland Clinic, where he underwent a complicated surgery that involved removing a massive tumor while his heart was on bypass. The surgery was so complex, we were told nothing like it had ever been performed at St. Mary’s. In Cleveland, I walked past a man in the hallway who had a very similar procedure just a few days before my dad’s. Clearly it was where he needed to be. Some might stop here and say that this is proof that we need government healthcare. But I’m not going to sugarcoat this and tell you it was all smooth sailing to that point. Medicaid questioned the need for the transfer, and the transfer to Cleveland specifically. It was only after dad was turned down by two other hospitals that the transfer to Cleveland was approved, and that was a couple of days after the transfer was initially requested. But, he did get the transfer, get a full workup, an extremely complicated surgery, and several days of recovery. He came home to in-home nursing and physical therapy, and outpatient follow-up locally. Pretty comprehensive services.

Here's the thing, my dad chose to quit his job. He didn’t lose it because of economic problems or because he wasn’t physically able to do it. He also wasn’t being lazy. He wanted to continue working, he just wanted a change of scenery. He found some other part-time work to try to make ends meet, but never found a job that offered health insurance again. He worked in “unskilled” manual labor for over 20 years in one place, and in several other places before that. He didn’t have the kind of wealth it takes to pay for his own healthcare for the rest of his life, short as that ended up being.

What I’ve been wondering about in the last couple of years is what we, as a country, think should happen in situations like this. If someone quits working, do they deserve to lose the benefits of living in the wealthiest country in the world? Do we value hard work so much that someone who stops doing it, however briefly, loses access to basic healthcare? And what about the poor souls who legitimately lose their jobs because of problems in the economy? There’s been a fair amount of that in the last year, and a lot of folks lost their health insurance as a result. Some of them fell far enough to land on Medicaid, but some of them didn’t. Do we really believe that offering healthcare to every citizen, regardless of their employment status, amounts to *gasp* Socialism?!

Frankly, I wish I could write this without bringing politics into it at all, but that’s just not possible at this time. I want you to know that for me, personally, it’s more important that your dad gets the care that my dad got, regardless of whether he “deserves it,” by some arbitrary standard. I’m willing to pay more in taxes to see that happen. And I don’t see any way forward except to have the government guarantee access to healthcare. I’m not smart or informed enough to tell you if that should be public healthcare for everyone, or an option to buy in to Medicare, or some other thing nobody has dreamed up yet. But I appreciate that my dad could put his focus on his fight, and not on how he was going to pay the bills afterwards. That’s exactly what I want you and your family to have when it’s your turn to fight.

I’m going to be voting for people I think will work to make this happen. And then I’ll be calling them and writing them and harassing them to keep doing the work, because voting by itself isn’t enough. And while I’m not telling anyone how to vote, I am asking, if you read this far, to consider how you are voting, and how it might affect you and the ones you love down the road. Because down the road can come at you a lot faster than you realize.

Quandary 2019

I’m pretty sure the last thing I wrote outside of work was my dad’s obituary. The urge to write things down has come for a time since then, but never long enough to commit words to page. I decided it was time to start putting them down and see what comes of it. The first thing that really pushed me to write again was the trip I took with my brother and sister to Colorado in September.

Calling it a vacation seems silly. I was not working, and I was away from home, and some of it was certainly delightful and relaxing. But it was emotionally and physically taxing as well. It’s been nearly two years since my dad died. Feels like ten years ago or two weeks ago, depending on the day. But while in Colorado, it seemed often like he was right there. Four years ago, my brother and I did this trip with my dad, hitting nearly all the same spots. We did what was at the time, and perhaps still is, the hardest physical challenge of my life. We climbed Quandary Peak, a mountain 14,265 feet in altitude. The trail is a little under 7 miles, and it is hard terrain. At places we had to choose each step to make sure our ankles stayed intact. Granite is unforgiving in all its forms, from large slick rocks with sharp edges, to small gravel churning underfoot. And on Quandary, there is a lot of granite.

My dad struggled his way up this mountain, proud in the end that he only quit once before deciding to persevere and get to the top. We took the last few steps up the mountain together, soaking in the views and reveling in our accomplishment, before facing the next struggle of getting back down. This time, it was my sister’s turn to struggle up the mountain. And struggle she did. She never officially quit, not even once, though I’m certain that the thought more than danced across her mind. Nothing about this trip was easy for her, including the “warm up” hikes we did in the days leading up to Quandary. But, just like before, we took the last few steps together and made it to the top eventually. And just like before, we realized the job was only half done, and trudged our way back down.

I remember years ago going to Israel with some of my family. The most beautiful part of that trip for me was walking through the Bible stories of my childhood. It was as if Narnia had come to life and I could see with my own eyes what had only been described in words before. Hearing those stories again, in the places they occurred, brought them to life and made history real before my eyes. Whatever your beliefs, it’s hard to underestimate the historical significance of the life of Jesus. Walking where he walked was an experience I’ll never forget.

Similarly, walking these steps I last walked with my father brought him back to life for me, in a way. It sounds beautiful, and it is. But it is also torturous. I think Colorado is unique because I’ve only been in those places with him, my brother, and now my sister. Everywhere around “home” I’ve been with him, I’ve also been with lots of other people. And everywhere else I’ve traveled with him has been brief, or crowded, or too anonymous to be memorable. But in Colorado, we walked where few people do. Being that close to him, but not being able to see him or talk to him, reminded me what is missing all over again. Time has not yet healed that wound, and I suspect it never really will.

The funny thing to me about that trip four years ago is that we had no idea we were nearing the end with him. It was not a “do it before it’s too late” trip. It was a “do it and then later do it again” trip. We thought there were decades of adventures left, and were planning the next one when he got sick. But I love that about my dad. The older he got, the more he lived. He bought a motorcycle in his 50s, went to a bunch of concerts with Dee, and was up for more adventure than I ever would have guessed. I even convinced him to try seared tuna once. Rare fish. Rare indeed. I try to remind myself of these things on the days I don’t want to get out of bed. There is much life yet to be lived, and no excuse to put it off. Some days though, it is the best I can do to put one foot in front of the other. Inch my way along the trail. One more step.

Safari

Our group had a 3-day stay at Kichwa Tembo, a safari resort in the Masai Mara area of Kenya, adjacent to the Serengeti. The time of year coincided with the wildebeest migration, an event that made all the other species more active as well. The trip did not disappoint.

We arrived at the airstrip (not airport) and were greeted by our guide, Timothy. He prepared some hot tea and coffee and went over some of the basics with us, while our heavier luggage was whisked away to the resort. Then we were on safari. Within a few minutes we were literally watching a pack of hyenas tear apart the carcass of a hippo, with a flock of vultures waiting their turn. It wasn’t all carnage and destruction, though we saw our share of that. The most exciting thing was that almost every animal we saw, we saw up close. Disturbingly close at times. Watching a lioness hunt from just outside your wide-open vehicle is pretty amazing until she turns and starts walking towards you. You then realize just how exposed you are. Thankfully she was more interested in zebra than in us, so I escaped unharmed. 

Our guide was of the Maasai tribe in this part of Kenya. In addition to telling us everything about the wildlife around us, he also shared aspects of his culture and his personal stories. He is about my age (he can’t be sure of his exact age, because they only track the year and the season of births) and is married to his first wife. I’ve heard this as a joke from people in the U.S., but Timothy is planning to have at least two more. He’s just not going to divorce the first one. The Maasai are a polygamous culture, and Timothy has told his father that he intends to have more wives than he did (two). We loved Timothy. He guided us to some of the coolest things we could imagine seeing, he was funny and engaging, and he brought lots of drinks. Going through the greatest zoo on the planet with a traveling bar is every bit as awesome as it sounds. This is one to put on your bucket list, if it’s not there already. 

I can’t tell all the stories of safari, but one of the things I really enjoyed was listening to Timothy talk about the hyenas specifically. In his culture, hyenas are respected very highly. This is somewhat in contrast to how we all learned about them in school. Umm, I mean The Lion King. He said hyenas always call one another when there is a meal, rather than keeping the meat just for themselves. A clan in his tribe named for the hyenas has a reputation of being very welcoming and communal in this way. These are the experiences you can’t have at the zoo. That and the fact that the hyenas are actively gnawing on a hippo bone while he speaks.

 

Maybe the coolest visual experience we had was an early morning hot air balloon ride over the Mara. We woke up in the damn dark and took our Land Cruiser to the launch site. We were introduced to Vincent, our French pilot, and then the crew started lighting the air on fire. The balloon filled quickly and when the basket flipped upright we moved quickly to board the flight. I’m not a huge heights person, but this was as chill and relaxing an experience as I’ve had. There were several other balloons that took off from the same location, and it was really interesting to hear them communicate and change their elevations in concert so we didn’t have a quiet, low impact, terrifying experience. We were up high enough for the fall to be problematic, and even if you fall “safely,” there are a fair number of predators down there! I don’t care how much you respect the hyena, I don’t want to meet one like that. Anyway, we were fine. More than fine, we saw beautiful views of the savannah. We followed the river for awhile, obtaining a new perspective on the mass of life that is a herd of hippos. Then we moved back over the more open plains, flying over elephants, giraffes, and so many types of antelope I really couldn’t keep up. 

Vincent was narrating for us, both about the wildlife and the conditions. This isn’t related to anything, but I really enjoyed listening to him speaking English with his thick French accent. He seemed a very pleasant man, in addition to a capable pilot. He warned us early on that on the landing sometimes the basket tips over, but said several times on the trip that the wind was so mild that it was likely we would have a very soft landing. As we descended in preparation, he reiterated that it would probably be very gentle. Then at the last minute he yelled something about a termite mound. We had seen these mounds throughout our visit. Basically piles of dirt several feet tall, and pretty solid. Very solid, in fact, when it connects with your backside through a hot air balloon basket. 

Our last night of the safari included a “Bush Dinner,” wherein we all loaded up in the jeep and drove out into the savannah to share a meal. Our guide both drove us and joined us for the meal, which was a multi-course feast. Timothy continued in his role of guide, stopping along the way to show us anything interesting that popped up, and checking in on a badly injured zebra we had seen before. We had a lantern-lit dinner complete with hippos making a ruckus nearby. It was truly a life of luxury amid some pretty brutal surroundings. I don’t know what it says about us as people that we vacationed in a place where we might struggle to survive on our own, but I’ll leave that for another time. I am thrilled with the opportunity I had, and very much plan to do it again someday.

Kenya – Village Project Africa

I arrived in Nairobi, a large, vibrant city (based solely on the eight or so hours I spent there). I had a hotel room where I showered and slept a few hours before being driven back to the airport for a flight to Eldoret, a smaller but still very vibrant city. But it was differently vibrant. There was a lot of activity and many markets and shops with locals showing their wares. There were also people driving herds of cattle across the main highway. It made this West Virginia boy feel oddly comfortable. Most people not on foot were using bicycles and small motorcycles. They were sort of like dirt bikes, but the way they loaded these things up you could tell they had at least a little power. Piles and piles of crates, bags, and just random objects would be stacked, often several feet into the air on the back of these bikes. The physics of keeping some of the loads intact was impressive, but I never saw one tip over. How they managed to stay upright while also navigating the narrow, pothole laden streets is beyond me. 

It was with great relief that I arrived at the home of our host and met up with the rest of my travel companions. Despite being separated from them, they were extremely helpful in getting my flight to Eldoret re-booked and making sure I had a place to stay in Nairobi. But I was very happy to be with everyone and back on schedule.

A brief introduction to VPA from my perspective. This organization has been involved in rural Kenya for a number of years. The services they provide are too numerous for me to list, but it includes a primary school (roughly elementary through middle school) and a high school, as well as resources for some of the local families. As part of our visits to the VPA schools, we walked around the village and met some of the families of the children. All of the homes were similar structures, using hand made bricks or concrete blocks, sometimes with wood framing and maybe a sheet metal roof. Though it was not raining during our time in the village, leaking has to be a recurring problem. But the theme of our visits was that these families and children were overcoming serious obstacles, just to be able to attend school. Many of them were without their fathers, which comes with even more serious consequences in Kenya. Widows are not treated equally, particularly as it comes to land ownership, so even maintaining a home can be a challenge. The mothers, grandmothers, and other family members we spoke to were all very happy that their children were given the opportunity to go to school. 

In this part of the country, everything around me is a combination of lush green vegetation, contrasted with red, wet clay. Barely a paved road, and few markets or storefronts. Nearly everyone is on foot, with the occasional motorcycle (we really enjoyed the Swahili “boda boda”) coming along. I saw a few trucks and a tractor, but most of the time people got where they were going on their own two feet. Often they were carrying loads: firewood, produce, and one large piece of sheet metal among those I can recall. They were very struck by our whiteness. I know from my hosts that they have seen white people before, but it is also a rare and clearly momentous event. Children would usually smile or laugh and wave at us. Even many of the adults seemed to have a bemused expression on their faces. 

This was doubly true when three of us took a turn as passengers on the backs of those boda bodas. One of our hosts, Davis, arranged for them to transport us to a local high school for various activities, because his vehicle would not accommodate the whole group. I was one of the lucky three. Riding on the back of a motorcycle took me back to younger days, when my close friend Nate would encourage me to risk life and limb by climbing onto the back of his bike. He would have felt right at home here. The ride itself was surprisingly smooth, especially considering the rough terrain. And man did the locals love it. We got waves, cheers, thumbs up, and lots of very confused and interested looks. It was terrific. It was brought to our attention later in the day the sharp contrast between our frequent view of motorcycles in the US as luxury items, as opposed to here where they are a means of income and a near necessity for traveling long distances in a short period of time. Context like this is particularly important in trying to describe life in the U.S. to my new Kenyan friends. When one of our fellow travelers told the group how much he spent on his motorcycle (roughly converted to Kenyan shillings), children and adults alike were awestruck.

Earlier on the day of the great boda boda escapade, we attended a church service hosted on the campus of the high school. It was a 3-hour marathon that included some of the best a capella singing I’ve ever heard. I’ve been to a lot of churches in my life, many with full bands and various instrumental performers. They can’t beat a few hundred African kids with rhythm and enthusiasm. The minister gave a very long sermon, in which he seemed to touch on pretty much the entirety of the Bible. It was an impressive feat, though I definitely left with some questions about his fidelity to doctrine. I remind myself that this is what happens when cultures collide. The singing is what I’ll remember most though. 

After the service, we were treated to a tour of the local high school campus. This includes some classrooms and dormitories, as all of the children live on site during the school year. Later in the day they would provide a pretty impressive chemistry demonstration and we were able to spend some time talking with the children in smaller groups. During lunch, I was talking to two of the high school girls. They had many questions about the United States and about my life personally. They asked really interesting questions about language, music, and culture in general. They were enthralled with the camera on my phone, and we spent a good bit of time taking selfies. They also took more traditional photos, with one of them instructing me to jump so she could get an “action shot.” It’s hilarious. All the kids were the same way, and I think by the end of the day students of the school had probably taken more pictures with our cameras and phones than we had.

During this conversation, Jasmine, the more direct of the two, asked me what my worst moment in life was. We learned later that they ask this question often, in part because they like to hear stories of people overcoming adversity. The directness of the question (without a hint of rudeness, by the way), took me so off guard that I answered truthfully. I talked about the recent loss of my dad and how hard it has been on me. I also talked about my family, especially my siblings, and how we have tried our best to take care of each other. Without my asking, Jasmine told me that her worst moment was also the loss of her father, which occurred when she was in 3^rd grade. It was the oddest and most unexpected sort of bonding experience. It was also a reminder that death, separation from family, and traumatic loss in general are so much more a part of the life around here. Many of these children are at this school because there are no resources in their community to help them. They may not be in school at all if this opportunity were not present. It didn’t make me feel any better about losing my dad, but it was probably the most I’ve connected with someone about it other than my siblings.

Me trying to turn Jasmine into a Herd fan. I think it's working.

The day before, we were able to take the children we sponsor (providing scholarship to the school and/or room and board in the dorm) to the local market to buy clothing. It was another fun cultural experience, because people were now looking at us both as an anomaly, but also as a source of income. I walked around with Clinton, the 8^th grade boy I’ve been sponsoring for the last few years, as he pulled clothes from the local vendors and tried to see if they would fit him. The proprietors were never far away, often talking with him directly in Swahili. I could tell that he was already negotiating prices on my behalf, and it probably saved me a few shillings. I was able to barter down a little further, but I feel certain that anyone who sold anything to me had a very good day. The truth is that even with a very marked up price, everything here is still so much cheaper than the U.S. it hardly feels worth it to argue. By the end of the day, Clinton had an entire wardrobe and a new backpack to put it in, and I was probably out about $50. All in all, a pretty good day. One of our fellow travelers found a motorcycle shop up the street with a cooler full of Coke and Fanta. Everyone in our crew got one and we enjoyed it together. There was a group photo and lots of smiles. 

Clinton and I at the river near the market.

Our last full day in the village we were treated to a great show. The primary school has a dance team that performs traditional tribal dances. They have full costumes, designed and made by their instructor, and they tour around the country competing. The show was incredible. These very soft-spoken children seemed transformed into confident, rehearsed, polished performers. They followed their choreography beautifully. I’m no dance expert, but I can say that with confidence because if they had not followed each step precisely, someone would have been injured. We learned later that they practice religiously, even if their teacher is not present. They are clearly very dedicated. Clinton was also on the dance team, and he was very pleased that they had the opportunity to entertain us. So was I. 

One of the dances performed. This boy in the lead role was incredible.

One of the things I’m most happy about on this trip is that every time I’ve seen a ball I have tried to join in on the game. We played a variation of a soccer game at the primary school, where one person was in the middle of a circle and would kick the ball another person. The person in the middle then went chasing around the circle until they could touch the ball again. It was a great way for me to be reminded that I’m not good at soccer, but the kids were so enthusiastic and amused. It was a wonderful time. The next day at the high school, I was able to jump into a volleyball game. This time I felt a bit more in my comfort zone, as I had at least played volleyball recreationally before. Again, everyone was very encouraging of my performance, even when I obviously sucked. The next day, back at the high school, I jumped into a real soccer game. The ball was actually a creation of the kids there, a little softer than a soccer ball and a little less predictable. They had a single goal set up, and they played very much like a half-court pickup basketball style where the defense would have to take the ball back before taking a shot at the net. I picked up on that portion of the rules reasonably well. My feet were not quite as cooperative, though I eventually approached a degree of almost competence. That was combined with a clear goal of passing the ball off as quickly as possible whenever it came my way. This led to my one true athletic highlight of the trip, when I was able to kick the ball out of the air to one of the other boys so he could score a goal. It made up for so many efforts to kick the ball, only to watch it keep going through my legs. I owe all my (limited) success to years of hacky sack…it’s about time that paid off.

Photo credit to Allen Owens. Way to make me look good.

We found ourselves still at the high school until into the evening. Our hosts had not been present for much of the day, and we were left to spend time with the kids and entertain ourselves. However, as it began to get dark we started wondering how we were going to get home. Finally, we were able to speak with Davis by phone very briefly (connection being what it is in rural Kenya), and he assured us that someone was coming for us. Eventually five of the boda bodas arrived. My traveling crew looked around and realized there were nine of us. We were then told that we would be riding two to a bike, even the three women in dresses. Everyone saddled up, ready for the next part of our adventure. My cousin Lauren got on the bike behind me, and everyone else was paired up. We started out on the most narrow dirt path, and at one point our driver had to walk us through the mud with the bike still running. Eventually we made it out to the main road and only had to avoid the potholes. As had happened many times before, the locals were amazed and amused by all the white people riding by them. We got many waves and greetings, and one of the loudest and most purely joyful belly laughs I’ve ever heard, coming from a young girl along our route. When we arrived back at home, our hosts were outside to greet us and take pictures. Everyone was in high spirits, and we shared our evening meal and best moments from the trip so far.

If you are so inclined, you can donate to Village Project Africa through the link provided. Please especially consider the brand new Nixon Vidolo Post-Secondary Education Scholarship, which will be used to help some of the high schoolers attend college! Village Project Africa Donations

Lauren and I holding on for dear life.

 Tomorrow we return to Nairobi and prepare to start the next phase of our journey, the Safari!

Quick aside before Safari. We arrived late to Nairobi to share in a group dinner and a night of rest. We went to a restaurant in Nairobi called “Carnivore.” It was a sort of Brazilian style steakhouse, where they had a nominal soup and salad course before bringing around massive amounts of all kinds of meat, carved off of a sword. What can I say, they get me. They put a small flag on the table, which was to remain upright until the table “surrendered.” 

We had a few drinks, and many, many laughs. We’ve been of a consensus that the group we have is well-suited to travel together, and the dinner was further proof of that. There was not much sleep to be had, but we are all reasonably awake and at the airport, preparing for our flight to the Safari camp. From what I’ve been told, the Safari begins the moment we land.