But there I was, sitting next to my husband on a British Air 747, and we had just touched down at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, Kenya.
Africa!
The date was August 21, 1993.
Dave and I ducked through the jet’s little oval door and, squinting in early morning sunshine, we clunked down a metal stairway. With carry-on bags and laptop computer tucked under our arms, we followed fellow passengers across the tarmac and up the stairs into the terminal—much smaller than the last three we’d seen, JFK and London’s two airports, Heathrow and Gatwick.
Inside the dimly lit terminal, a man stepped out of the crowd and handed us forms. Bleary-eyed after an all-night flight, we thumbed through our passports, searched for numbers and dates, and filled in the forms’ blanks.
Next, we joined a line facing a row of narrow wooden booths that looked like something from my childhood back in the 1950s—hand-made and stained reddish-brown. When our turn came, we stepped forward and handed our passports to an official who spoke softly in a clipped Kenyan accent. He asked a few questions, stamped our passports, and waved us through.
We took a couple of steps forward and found ourselves on an escalator down to the baggage carousels—all two of them. Only one hummed around on its U-shaped journey, so that made it simple. Thank God for small airports. Our suitcases, boxes, and duffle bag showed up one by one and, after your grandpa lugged them onto our cart, we turned around and stood in line for an inspection. When our turn came, the official rummaged through a few bags and then pointed us toward large glass doors.
I wrote this in a letter to my granddaughter, Maggie:
Your grandfather’s cousin Paul stood on the other side of those glass doors, and by then we were mighty pleased to see a familiar face. He and his wife Barbara translate the Bible with people in what was then called Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo), but they happened to be in Nairobi at the time.
Paul loaded us into a borrowed van and we set out toward the city. He sat behind the wheel on the right side of the van and propelled it down the left side of the highway, a practice established in British colonial days. It seemed like we drove down the wrong side of the road, and I felt disoriented and dizzy. Add that to jet lag and sleep-deprivation—and I thanked God it was Paul’s job to drive and not mine.
We drove through broad grassy spaces, punctuated by African thorn trees, with a clear view of escarpments in the hazy distance, wide and purple, and all of it spread under a vast dome of blue sky.
Before long, we passed a few shops and businesses, some shiny like new, others patched and rickety. The highway had no paved shoulders, only orange dirt littered with thousands of plastic shopping bags. Pedestrians and goats walked alongside speeding traffic.
We passed piles of burning trash that filled the air with a foul odor. Enormous old trucks and buses spewed black exhaust, adding to the air’s stench. The fumes burned my nose, and I could feel my chest tighten.
Within minutes, we entered the busy city of Nairobi, cloaked in blossom-covered trees, dense green shrubs, and tropical flowers—red, yellow, purple, and orange—lavish beauty in the midst of trash and polluted air.
Paul maneuvered the van through thick, aggressive traffic. I held my breath while he battled his way into a congested traffic circle, and around—clockwise.
Unruffled, Paul steered the van out of the traffic circle and onto a narrow, quiet lane lined with towering eucalyptus trees. Within seconds, he pulled up to an iron gate with stone pillars on each side, and a blue-uniformed man stepped out of a narrow wooden guardhouse.
He swung the gate open and Paul drove us into a small compound. We slid open the van doors, climbed down, and—stepped into springtime. Dappled sunshine filtered through tall old trees, and the temperature felt about seventy degrees. After wild city traffic, noise, and exhaust, this place was a hushed haven.
Paul explained that our offices would be there on the campus of Bible Translation and Literacy, or BTL, a Kenyan organization that partners with Wycliffe Bible Translators. I looked around at three charming stone buildings reminiscent of old British structures, three stories each, with quaint, small-paned windows and ginger-colored tile roofs.
Tropical gardens teemed with bright colors and textures—Bird of Paradise, lantana, begonias, rosemary, ferns, violets, marguerite daisies, banana trees, fig trees, hibiscus, and the grand centerpiece—lofty old palm trees in the center loop. I don’t think the Garden of Eden could’ve looked any prettier. (from Chapter 1, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
AND—what a small world! The day before yesterday, we heard from Tom, a dear friend from Port Angeles (click on “But I don’t WANT to leave Port Angeles!”), who is not only in Nairobi, but, during his two weeks there with a missions team, he is staying at BTL! I could hardly believe my eyes when I read his message.
And he wrote, “BTL is a gift, a true haven!”
Haven, the same word I’d written in my memoir about my own arrival at BTL.
Yes, Nairobi, like the world’s other major cities,
is a busy, dirty, rowdy city and yet, in the midst of it,
Dave and I experienced the gracious, quiet beauty of BTL,
and for four years enjoyed working out of offices there.
I’m delighted Tom is finding the place to be
as lovely a haven as we found it to be.
I messaged Tom, "Blow BTL a kiss from me."
He replied, "I will do what you request,
but on the sly.
If the team sees me, they might just
put me back on a plane for home!"
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