I spent the night at one of my favorite getaway places last weekend. A cabin in a forest of tall trees and streams, which, though only trickling at the end of this dry season, still gives the desired tranquil effect. The two-hour drive over potholed roads and unmarked speed bumps, combined with the added insecurity on the highways these days, is the only thing which puts me off retreating there more often, but it's always worth the effort. I'd made it there in time to attend a Sunday morning service in a small chapel with only a dozen or so people in attendance. I always feel at home in that place. An endless variety of exotic birds dart and flit this way and that in the forests canopy, approaching ever closer if you sit still and quiet long enough. King Fishers and Hornbills, Weavers and Wagtails, Swifts and Swallows, and the famous Turacos, they're all here. Each species with it's own feeding habits, some searching for seeds and bugs in the trees, some drink nectar from flowers and blossoms, others forage in the grass. I watched a group of maybe a hundred or more bee eaters diving and darting every which way in seemingly random but mesmerizing patterns of aerodynamics as they prayed upon a swarm of helpless bees above the treetops. A collision between the swooping birds appeared inevitable but there wasn't even a close call, as each seemed synchronized with the others.

Bus

It's at times like this when Africa can lull you into believing this is paradise lost. It's hard to believe that the giants of poverty, hunger, disease, dispair and illiteracy, too often spawned from corruption of power hungry men, lurk in every alley and byway. It wasn't long before I was reminded once again of the fallen world we live in, this time by a ten second phone call. "Hello Paul, this is Rose, Gladys is dead", she abruptly told me. "I don't know what caused it but the funeral is next Wednesday". And so just like that, reality crashed into my tranquil retreat. Rose is the housekeeper at Saint Vincent's Home for Handicapped children where some friends and I have been involved to a minor degree over the past 3 years. Gladys was a young shy girl with a sheepish grin whom we had met there. Actually we had sent her to Kijabe Hospital near Nairobi for corrective surgery to straighten her disfigured limbs a couple of years ago. Since then, wheel chair no longer necessary, she had been taken back home to care for her younger siblings. I learned later she died from malaria.

Chapel in the forest

Reality also displays sobering sites in and around Kitale nowadays. Rows of Red Cross tents housing refugees, displaced by the ethnic clashes seen in Kenya since the disputed December elections is a site I've only seen on a TV screen before. The senses are alerted when one sees such sights first hand. It's as if the brain refuses to process what the eyes are seeing. Today I stopped by and spoke with a couple of mothers in the fenced compound. Their houses had been burnt down and they had been chased away from their Mount Elgon homes fleeing for their lives. The two particular women I spoke with felt fortunate because at least their families are intact.

Gold buyer

It's not all bad news though. I've been pleasantly surprised by what we've been able to accomplish since I arrived back a month or so ago. This week I bought 200 bed sheets, blankets, cups, plates, spoons and 50 wash basins for the Children's Home at Runo. Our goal is to open the home March 1st.  This week Samuel was busy interviewing potential candidates to care for and supervise the kids, while I put the final touches on the building by installing mosquito screens on all the windows and doors. Shower stalls will follow as funds are raised and the run off water will irrigate a banana plantation. At least that's the plan. I got a sneak preview this week when I saw 100 plus preschool kids, who are using the building as a temporary classroom, almost raise the roof when the school bell rang.

Gold diggers

Since it's conception, I had always believed that if every question had to be answered regarding the operation of the home before we began to build, then we would never build it at all. Indeed, many issues could not even be anticipated, but the biggest question of all was how it would be supported. I had no idea when we began but the answer appears to have come in most surprising fashion, and by way of a bus. Again my friends Mr. Singh and Runo's head teacher Samuel were part of the equation. Singh was overhauling the bus for a girl's boarding school at his workshop, making it ready for sale. He told me he has maintained the bus since it was new and that it was in very good condition. I don't even know why I mentioned it to Samuel but he said such a vehicle operating as public transport in Pokot could make a considerable profit since there is a lack of such facilities. The penny dropped, we scribbled some numbers down and I then met with the owners. The deal is currently going through and we should take possession next week. Perhaps even on the same day we open the home. How cool would that be.

Gold rush

Mount Mtelo

I witnessed another unusual site a couple of weeks ago, one you might expect to see on a National Geographic show. A friend had invited me to spend the weekend climbing Mount Mtelo in west Pokot. Mount Mtelo is the highest peak in the Cherangani mountain range and stands at 10,500 feet elevation. We drove up a steep track to our base camp at Secerr and pitched our tents the day before we climbed. A little way down the road we were told gold was being mined so we went to investigate. Literally hundreds of people were swarming like ants in a dried up riverbed, digging holes, some 20 feet deep, to the bedrock below with crude tools, bare hands and no reinforcement. Buckets of small rocks and silt were being hauled out and washed in the nearby steam, turning it to a muddy brown, before ultimately revealing the shiny precious metal. A few buyers were on hand equipped with tiny scales and wads of cash to pay on the spot for the days finds, usually the equivalent of about $15 we learned. I did a quick calculation and figured they were buying it for about 1/16 of the market value. The scramble for the precious metal apparently goes on each year until the rains return, flooding the river, and once again the treasure is buried.

Refugee Camp

Refugee Child

It was a grueling hike the next day to the top of Mtelo, and several times I wanted to throw the towel in. Oxygen felt as rare as the gold seen the day before but we eventually made it and were rewarded with a literally breathtaking, panoramic 360 degree view as far as the eyes could see. It was an exhilarating experience but naively I thought the hard part was over and the decent would be easy. I was wrong. My legs felt like they were made from jelly, muscles seemed to be on fire, long before we reached camp, resisting the pull of the steep terrain. I laid on my mattress staring through the open screen of the tent that night, staring at the brilliant starlit black African sky, the occasional blinking satellite darting across in endless orbit, and as I drifted off to sleep, I was reminded, I remain in His grasp.