Tag: wild game

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South C

Never in my life had I known a neighborhood whose name was plucked from a string of alphabet symbols.

The two cars arriving from the airport – one transporting us, the other our luggage – eased up to Maxwell’s South C home.

Their house itself sat hidden behind a stonework wall, like a shy maiden part-concealed back of a fortress of vines. And vines there were, in abundance. Bougainvillea – their rich array of petals – pinks, purples, oranges, reds garnishing much of the ‘C’ neighborhood. Ray Troyer back in San Antonio had put into my hands my first-ever 35mm camera, a second-hand Voigtlander. What beauty these flowers could show on a slide. If I can just remember Ray’s coaching how to use the thing.

“Jerry and Ann”, Jenny called out, “we’re off to Sunday morning church”. “You folks just relax. . . sleep a bit if you can. . . you’ve travelled far and long. After service we shall come collect you and we’ll go together for lunch. Good?” Weariness, having indeed caught up with us, we readily agreed. After all, this was Sunday right, a day of rest?

What would our first meal in Africa be. . . and exactly where? The question hadn’t crossed our minds. Had we given it a thought we might have assumed we would dine under a long-grass roof within a mud hut.

Entering Nairobi’s Hilton we shook our heads trying to get them around this scenario. The new and somewhat naïve American couple exited the hotel’s café an hour later having happily feasted on sandwiches and fries. ‘Chips’ Jerry, I coached myself. Fries aren’t ‘fries’ here, they’re ‘chips’.

So our first day entering Africa, a living tutorial had essentially greeted us. If formalized, an academic title might have been posted: ‘Kenya. Background and Culture 101’. This was a beautiful land of contrasts. . . rich and impoverished, tradition-steeped and cutting-edge, conflicted and united. It sobered us that we hadn’t begun to learn and it inspired us that we could start now. Here at tourism’s iconic Hilton Hotel, walking-distance from one of Africa’s largest slums – Mathare Valley.

A voice with an accent I was hearing more often called over to me. New Zealanders carried the nickname Kiwi, after the national symbol, a bird common to their Islands. “Eva needs electrical wiring put in at her Mashuru place”, offered John. “So I’ll head out there Tuesday. The job should take a couple days. . . Like to come?”

“Sure”, I piped. Getting away from the big city and out to the ‘real Africa’ would be fun, I thought. Maybe even a thrill.

Walking unarmed and alone through leopard country had not crossed my mind.

©2017 Jerry Lout

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Song Power

Jim Reeves.

I could recognize the singer’s velvet voice anywhere. The last place I would think to hear it was in Africa’s outback.

The country gentleman’s crooning, “Am I that easy to forget?”, floated from a battery-powered cassette player beyond a giant anthill some yards back of me. What power music has, to carry you away, I thought. Feels like I’m in an Oklahoma hay-field taking a sandwich break.

John and I were at Mashuru, a remote Maasai village, a dot on the Kenya map halfway from Nairobi to the Tanzania border. The snowy summit of Africa’s Mt. Kilimanjaro came out of hiding now and then. My first glimpse was the day before, her majestic beauty leaving me awestruck.

“Ready to hunt some wild game?”

We had finished some wiring on Eva’s small mission house and time had come for some adventure. As for the hunt’s artillery, my new friend’s 35 mm camera would do.

His VW Beetle was casting a late afternoon shadow as John eased the car to a halt at an elevated spot not far from a pool of murky brown at the edge of a wide river bed. Nice watering hole for the thirst quench of some exotic beast, I thought, recalling the region was a notable big game hunting block for all manner of wildlife. Will an elephant or a rhino show? A lion, maybe. . . leopard?

After a fruitless half-hour waiting, John touched the ignition key. “Jerry, here’s an idea.” A mix of daring and mischief flavored his voice. “These months the river stays mainly dry. Its path winds along for a few kilometers and in a little while it passes near Eva’s place”. He went on. “Let’s take the bug right up the river instead of going back along the murram road. What do ya say?” Though John had not yet spent a year in Kenya, by my standards he was the seasoned missionary veteran.

“Sure, why not.”

Before half an hour passed two things were underway. Africa’s equatorial sun was rapidly setting, spreading darkness along the riverbed and the dense forests hemming it at either side. And two young men pondered ways to free a Volkswagen Beetle sunk axle-deep in river-bottom sand. By now we had abandoned the plan to make it back to Eva’s, managing to turn the vehicle around. Still the task to escape this oversize sand-pit was daunting.

“Jerry, here’s an idea.” I had heard the phrase before.

©2017 Jerry Lout