Germs? Or angel dust?

 

It was one thing for us expatriates to sit around a table with other ex-pats and learn about respecting and valuing the culture new to us—and it was altogether another thing to live it out.

 

And so it was that one Sunday during our orientation course, Shel Arensen, a missionary with AIM (Africa Inland Mission), invited us to go to church with him and the Dorobo people. (You remember Shel—recently I told you about his novel, The Dust of Africa. I heartily recommend it!)

 

A few of us piled into Shel’s sturdy four-wheel-drive and we set out. Eventually the tarmac wore out, leaving just a lumpy, dusty track, but hakuna matata—no worries—Shel grew up in Africa. He patiently maneuvered the vehicle with ease—over, around, and through.

 

Eventually he pulled to a halt near the remote Dorobo village and we climbed out, a little nervous, wondering what awaited us.

 

A dozen people hurried down the hill to greet us with handshakes and broad grins.

 

Shy children looked up at us and then turned toward each other and giggled.

 

The adults spoke back and forth with Shel. We didn’t understand their language, but their smiles sent the message that they were pleased we had come.

 

Our new Dorobo friends led us up a dirt path toward their church. Along the way, children grabbed our hands and when they did, I heard the echo of our orientation director’s brief comment before we left camp. Brian had mentioned that some among the Dorobo have a reputation for poor personal hygiene.

 

Now, I’m a germ freak so when the children grabbed my hands, I wanted to pull away. At that moment, respecting and valuing the Dorobo culture seemed impossible.

 

But something—probably God—stopped me. Instead, with mixed emotions, I silently prayed the prayer my sister-in-law, Nancy, taught me, Oh, God, please cause my immune system to work well.

 

Shel told us the Dorobo Christians built their place of worship with pride and excitement and he led us inside it, a dim room about ten feet square, constructed of sticks and mud, with a dirt floor.

 

Under the corrugated tin roof, they had strung wires from corner to corner and had hung things on them—dried flowers, ferns, moss, squares of colored toilet tissue, and lined notebook paper on which someone had practiced penmanship.

 

On the walls, they had tacked pages out of European and American magazines—ads for coffee, pantyhose, and nail polish.

 

They’d built hand-hewn benches around the walls and when our group joined them, we packed that little room.

 

The Dorobo worshiped God with their songs, sometimes in Swahili, sometimes in Maa. They listened to Shel’s Bible stories and studied his pictures. He talked with them at length to be sure they understood the lessons and knew how to apply them to their lives.

 

Looking back on it now, I never imagined I’d visit a rural village or worship in a church like the Dorobo church, but I’m so glad I did.

 

On our drive back to our orientation campsite,

it occurred to me that despite the remote setting

and my germophobic tendencies,

the Dorobo people blessed us.

 

They welcomed us and invited us to worship God with them.

Nothing could be finer than that.

 

Cross-cultural living can have its “moments,”

but it can also lead us to discover joy, beauty,

and a richness we would miss otherwise.

 

Maybe the stuff on those children’s hands was angel dust.

 

“The dust of Africa had penetrated my skin pores and entered into my soul”

Take a look at these boots. (The other items have significance, too, but we’ll talk about them another day.)

I wore those boots in Africa, mostly during Kenya Safari, our orientation course. While you read the first three chapters of Grandma’s Letters from Africa, picture me wearing those boots.

All these years later, every time—and I mean every time—I shove my feet into them and cinch up the laces, I ask myself, “Do you think there’s any African dust still on these boots?” Then I smile and answer myself, “I sure hope so!”

Nine years after returning to the States, I discovered that Shel Arensen, a man I ran into from time to time in Kenya, had published a novel, The Dust of Africa.

When I read the book’s description, I knew I had to order it, and I’m so glad I did. It brought back scores of memories—Blue Band margarine, chai, and brown-red puddles. Bata safari boots. Mosquitoes dive-bombing my ears at night.

—And nocturnal hippo noises at Lake Naivasha. Shel described their sounds as “spluttering and wheeze-honking.” In Grandma’s Letters from Africa, I described them as “ghastly bellows and snorts.” Click here to see a brief video clip of hippos and hear some of their noises. (They make other noises, too.)

Shel wrote this about his novel’s main character, Clay Andrews: 

“I slumped into a chair at the Blukat Restaurant on Muindi Mbingu Street opposite the city market. ‘Do you still make the best samosas in Nairobi?’ I asked the waiter.

“‘Ndino Bwana, Yes sir,’ he responded with a smile.

“‘Then bring me four with a cold Coke.’”

Until I read The Dust of Africa, I’d forgotten that we had to ask specifically for a cold soda pop, otherwise it arrived at our table at room temperature. We avoided ice cubes because we couldn’t know if they were made with safe water, so the next best option was refrigerated sodas. I can still hear myself placing my order, “Diet Coke. Cold, but no ice.”

In the book, Clay Andrews continues: “The waiter came back with a small clear plate with four triangular pastries oozing grease onto a white torn-in-half napkin.”

Yes, I remember the oozing grease, but I’d forgotten about the torn-in-half paper napkins. It was a cost-cutting thing. The recollection brought me a smile.

After reading Shel’s book, I felt like I’d spent a few days back in Africa. It was a rich experience.

I was delighted to learn the source of Shel’s title, The Dust of Africa. It comes from an African proverb: “You can’t wash the dust of Africa off your feet.”

I’d never heard that proverb before, but I know what it means. Shel described it well. He wrote, “The dust of Africa had penetrated my skin pores and entered into my soul.”

Yes, I’m sure I still have African dust on my safari boots.

In addition to The Dust of Africa, Shel Arensen has written a number of other books. He has also served as the editor of Old Africa Magazine.

Grab your canteen—filled with filtered water, not tap water—and a roll of TP!

“Our group of fifty trainees and staff drove out of Nairobi,

the capital city, in a northerly direction,

into the Great Rift Valley,

and eventually arrived at Fisherman’s Camp

on the shores of Lake Naivasha.”

(from Chapter 1, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

Are you ready to start this journey around Kenya with me? I’m excited to show you scenery along the way. 

Don’t forget your canteen—filled with filtered water, not tap water! Remember to bring your own roll of TP! Toss your sunglasses, hat, camera, hand sanitizer, and insect repellant into your backpack, too.

Before we set out, first I must make two confessions.

First confession: I goofed in my book. I wrote that for the first phase of our orientation course, we camped at Fish Eagle Camp. Not true. We camped at Fisherman’s Camp. A wooden sign posted at the entrance says both “Fisherman’s Camp” and “Fish Eagle Camp.” Apparently, they sit beside each other. I suspect that’s why I got confused.

Second confession: My husband and I lost all our pictures from this two-week period, but I will show you a couple of my own of the region as well as exquisite photos, taken by someone else, along the route we took.

I’m ready—are you?

Climb up here beside me in the back of this dark green 1974 Toyota Land Cruiser and remember, in Kenya, a former British colony, people drive on the left side of the road.

You’ll see scenes thoroughly familiar to me—typical roads, road signs, and vehicles.

You’ll also see red clay paths, rural villages, shambas (little farms), and roadside shops.

Watch for African trees and shrubs, the Great Rift Valley overlook at 8,000 feet (it’s always cold up there), and scenes from down in the Rift Valley (it’s always hot down there). (Click here to read about the Great Rift Valley. It’s fascinating.)

You’ll also see several pictures of an unnamed mountain peak, and one labeled generically “volcanic peak.” That’s spectacular Mt. Longonot, an enormous dormant volcano with a vast crater.

In these photos, you won’t see a picture of the market town of Naivasha [niy-VAH-shah], which we drove through to get to Fisherman’s Camp, but I heard from my friend Shel Arensen, author of the novel The Dust of Africa, that Jim’s Corner Dishes in Naivasha has the best cabbage and chapati in town and still gives customers torn-in-half paper napkins!

It’s time to set out. Brace yourself—many of the roads ahead of us will be pocked with major potholes. Click here to view photos of the journey from Nairobi to Lake Naivasha. 

I’m eager for you to see 

the beautiful Kenyan countryside, 

a place I love. 

Is this what you’d envisioned?