Building a “home” at Eleng’ata Enterit

A page from my scrapbook. (What happened to that caption?!)

A day or so after our arrival at Eleng’ata Enterit (a silent desert place in southwestern Kenya that you can’t find on the map) and pitching our tent, Dave did something brilliant: He lashed sticks together with twine and made a set of shelves for our tent. We would be there for six weeks so we needed a way to get, and stay, organized.

Even all these years later, as I think back on those shelves, they bring me delight. What a great idea Dave had!

He also built a shower stall which we shared with those who’d pitched their tents close to ours. It was really a dandy—the envy of the other orientees. He used fig trees, ropes, and a yellow tarp to improvise an enclosure, and he placed smooth, flat stones on the ground so we didn’t have to stand in mud.

We used a solar shower—a pillow-like vinyl bag—which Dave filled each morning with water from the brook and placed in a sunny spot to warm. In the afternoon, he hoisted that heavy bag high on a stick hook he’d rigged up, and then we took turns taking a warm, though brief, shower.

We controlled the water flow with a lever on a plastic tube at the base of the water pouch. First, we did a quick hose-down and then stopped the water’s flow. We lathered up our bodies, shampooed our hair, and then turned on the water to rinse off.

We kept our mouths closed, though, because the water came straight from that filthy brook. If we got water on our lips, we dried them and prayed for the best.

Life in Eleng’ata Enterit

couldn’t have been more different

from what I’d always dreamed of—

living in a little white house with a picket fence

and a rose garden—

but, oh, those showers felt so good,

a highlight of each day.

(from Chapter 2, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

Our only source of water!

We found ourselves driving across a desert alongside a thin, meandering line of fig trees. Despite having no road to show us the way, we had arrived in Eleng’ata Enterit, a place you can’t find on the map, in southwestern Kenya. It wasn’t a village; we saw no dwellings.

"The Thomas Estates"

The first and most pressing order of business was to set up tents before nightfall at 6 p.m. Before we could do that, we and our fellow orientees had to clear land among those fig trees and tangled undergrowth. Dave had been very sick for a few days and despite his weakness, he worked hard and, together, we finally pitched our tent.

However, a couple of young single ladies were struggling to clear their underbrush, so Dave helped them, too. My heart ached for him, but somehow God enabled him to keep at it. (If you missed it, click on Strengthening the sick beside streams in the desert.)

Those young ladies seemed comforted by our presence and before long, they called me “Mom.” They named our part of camp the Thomas Estates and since it happened to be on the opposite side of camp from families with children, our young ladies enjoyed calling the Thomas Estates an adults-only community.

That first afternoon we also set up water-filter systems to get rid of microorganisms that cause diarrhea, vomiting, typhoid, and other illnesses.

Back at Lake Naivasha, Brian, our orientation’s director, 

had water barrels trucked up, 

but at Eleng’ata Enterit our water came from our stream, 

a few inches deep and maybe fifteen feet wide. 

Maasai bathed in it, washed their laundry in it, 

and herded cattle through it. 

Other wild animals splashed around in it, too, 

and baboons up in the trees pooped into it. 

That was our only source of water! Can you imagine?!

We set up our gravity-fed filter system with half a dozen red plastic barrels, rubber tubing, and ceramic filters. Those filters, called candles, looked like rolling pins without handles. We immersed them into a barrel of murky water that, in a few minutes, passed through the slightly porous ceramic.

In the process, that filthy water

turned clear and pure,

and it came out through rubber tubing.

What a blessing those water filters were!

(from Chapter 2, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

Strengthening the sick beside streams in the desert

When the pavement ended, we had followed a track in the sand. When that faded, we made our own way.

Before long, we found ourselves driving alongside a thin, meandering line of trees. We had arrived in Eleng’ata Enterit, a place you can’t find on the map, in southwestern Kenya. It wasn’t a village; we saw no dwellings. I felt filthy, sweaty, sticky, and dehydrated. Thank God, we’d finally arrived. (If you missed it, click on I never dreamed I’d live by a stream in a desert.)

As part of our orientation course named Kenya Safari, for the next six weeks we would live in the desert in the shade of massive, spreading fig trees. Oh, blessed, blessed shade. In Seattle, where I grew up, we never got enough sunshine, but in Eleng’ata Enterit—oh, yes, this Seattle girl bowed down and thanked God for shade.

 We soon learned, though, that those fig trees offered us only a mixed blessing because they housed dozens of baboons, which, upset at our invasion, pelted us with figs. And then there were baboon noises—they make a variety of grotesque sounds—the worst a blood-curdling shriek, sounding like a baby’s scream.

Those enormous fig trees grew alongside a narrow, shallow brook in that desert, reminding me of several verses in Isaiah about the way God provides streams in deserts. We would quickly learn how important that dirty little stream would be for our everyday survival!

The first afternoon, we and our fellow orientees cleared spaces in undergrowth and pitched tents under those trees beside that stream.

But I worried about Dave doing that hard work in the heat. A couple of days earlier, he’d gotten sick with an ailment common in Africa: vomiting, diarrhea, fever, and weakness. It hit him hard, really hard. God answered our prayers through our nurse, Jenny Caston, and her trunk of medicines, but recovery would take time.

My response to Dave’s illness surprised me. Since the beginning of our orientation, I’d kept my bravery intact despite living among strangers from countries around the world. I’d been a good sport about roughing it, about birds pooping on my laundry, the hippo charge, using an outhouse—but when Dave got sick, I had to fight discouragement.

I had brought one small chocolate bar with me on Kenya Safari. The time had come to rip open the wrapper. I let myself eat just a half-inch square, though, because that one little candy bar had to last a long time.

If we had stayed a couple of days longer at Lake Naivasha, Dave would have grown healthier and stronger, but the orientation course had to stay on schedule. When we arrived at Eleng’ata Enterit, I helped Dave—in my own wimpy, girly way—to clear the ground for our tent. He never once complained about his hard labor, but I could tell he was still sick and weak. My heart ached for him.

A couple of young single ladies in our group struggled to clear their underbrush so, bless his dear heart, Dave helped them, too. I don’t know how he did it.

All these years later, I still marvel at Dave’s dogged efforts to set up not only our campsite but to help others clear ground and set up their tents, too. God helped him do it. I’m reminded of Isaiah 41:10, “Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you.” I also think of Psalm 41:3 which says God gives strength to those who are sick.

And check out Isaiah 35, picturing Dave’s strenuous efforts while ill, laboring alongside a stream in the desert:

Strengthen the feeble hands,

steady the knees that give way. . . .

Your God will come. . . .

the lame will leap like a deer. . . .

Water will gush forth in the wilderness

and streams in the desert.

(Isaiah 35:3-6, selected)

That day, as I watched Dave, I witnessed

the words of Isaiah and the Psalmist come alive.

God is so good.

I never dreamed I’d live by a stream in a desert

No one suffered any mishaps—no warthogs charged out of bushes, no snakes struck, no lions roared and pounced, though they were there and could have.  (If you missed it, click on “Longing for a loo.”)

           

We climbed back into our vehicles and continued our dusty drive across the Great Rift Valley.

A thin line of green trees ribboning through a parched land: our next home

The drive took several hours but eventually, in the gray-golden distance, we looked down into a broad valley, Maasai territory.

Our orientation director, Brian, pointed out a thin line of green trees that ribboned through an enormous parched land. That, he said, would be our next home.

When the pavement ended, we followed a track in the sand. When that faded, we made our own way. Before long, we found ourselves driving alongside that meandering line of trees.

We had arrived in Eleng’ata Enterit, a place you can’t find on the map, in southwestern Kenya. It wasn’t a village; we saw no dwellings. I felt filthy, sweaty, sticky, and dehydrated. Thank God, we’d finally arrived.

I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out before, but when we arrived at Eleng’ata Enterit, I realized that those trees grew there because of a stream, a stream in the desert. One of my favorite devotionals, L.B. Cowman’s Streams in the Desert, is based on God’s words in Isaiah 43:20, “I provide water in the desert and streams in the wasteland.”

Over the years, I’ve cherished the way 

God provides streams in the desert places of our hearts and lives, 

but this Seattle gal never dreamed 

she’d one day live by a stream in a real desert. 

(Chapter 2, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)