I made my way to the bus terminal under a gray, overcast, Nairobi sky on the day I traveled to Arusha. I was glad it was Sunday morning so I didn't have to contend with the usual bustle of the busy, congested city streets as would have been the case had it been a week day. When I arrived the conductor greeted me, took my suitcase and asked me to choose a seat. Being the first to arrive I chose to sit in the single seat next to the driver, partly so I could get the best view for the trip, partly so I could keep an eye on my bag through the passenger side mirror, for it was still by the side of the bus waiting to be loaded. The thought also occurred to me I would have a better view of my life flashing in front of me if anything went wrong on the journey but I quickly dismissed the thought.

The bus was a fairly new one, a pleasant surprise since I really had no idea what to expect. Street venders wearing heavy jackets with huge pockets laden with everything from cheap jewelry to packets of peanuts and all manor of merchandise offered at 'special price for you today' deals came to the window in a relentless effort to make a sale. Soon other passengers arrived and the bus filled up but curiously still no luggage had been loaded yet. Just before departure time I found out why when an older bus turned the corner and came to a halt next to us in a cloud of fumes and dust. The same smiling conductor asked us all to disembark and take the same seats on the second bus since apparently the one we were on was only a waiting room. I knew there had to be a catch.

Soon we were off weaving our way through the city streets of Nairobi and into the open country of the Serengeti plains, the paved road inevitably yielding to the corrugated, dusty surface that almost make a travelers teeth chatter. More specifically I was off on my way to Arusha, Tanzania, to attend an intensive, three week, course in Kiswaheli.

Kiswaheli Lesson

Now the border crossing experience between two African countries is something to behold. First you have to have your passport stamped to exit one country, then, cross over a 'no man's land,' and get a new visa to enter the other. Everything went remarkable smoothly at first until it came time to fill out my application for an entry visa into Tanzania. There were no application forms available it seemed, no matter where I searched. Long lines were formed at every window in the overcrowded room and other bewildered travelers were also looking for forms so I decided to take charge and pushed my way to the front to ask the friendly border agent for the appropriate forms. The problem was he was hidden behind a rather thick glass screen and you must be skilled in the art of lip reading Kiswahili to make your request known. He waved a blank form at me and indicated I had to go and fill one out. I tried to explain I would gladly do so if he would give me one. We made several unsuccessful attempts to communicate and we were both becoming agitated, before he yelled "Fill one of dese out".  "Give it too me and I will" I yelled back, which was not the smartest thing I've ever done. He stuffed it through a slit in the glass and we glared at each other for a moment before I retreated to a tiny corner of a table to fill in the details. When I finally arrived back at the friendly border agent's window and handed him the completed form along with my passport he asked me to stand at one side and disappeared through a small door together with a half a dozen or so passports, including mine. Now 30 minutes is a long time in 'no man's land' without a passport and a lot of thoughts go through ones mind during that time. But that's how long it took before my passport arrived back amidst a bundle of others in the hands of a petite young lady who duly returned them to their respective owners. I felt like hugging her but decided to quit while I was ahead and ran off for the waiting bus, making sure I hadn't picked up some Iraqi passport my mistake. Now it's been a long time since I taxed my brain like I have during the past three weeks. On day two I felt way over my head and day one had only been the introduction. But I burned the candle at both ends and stuck with it and sure enough, after 3 weeks of intense study I can proudly announce I am fluent in greeting someone in Kiswaheli. Now if they answer me back that's a different cup of chi if you get my drift. Just kidding, the experience was amazing, the teaching staff extremely dedicated and the facility, nestled below the slopes of Mount Meru, with Kilamanjaro off in the distance, made the place ideal for study.

Classmates in Kiswaheli

There were so many highlights, but how cool it was, on the day nearing the end of the course, when the whole class visited a commune where young teenage boys are rescued from the streets. There they come to a place they can call home, where they run a farm by themselves, raising animals and crops and attend school and learn trade skills and still found the time to take each of us aside, one on one, to tour the impressive facility while practicing our newly acquired skills of Kiswahili. I actually can't believe how much knowledge we all acquired during the course but to actually be able to talk in elementary Kiswaheli with one of those young men, to find out his story, to laugh and high five, and then look into his piercing eyes and say 'poli' (sorry) as he tells you his father is dead and his mother is sick and unable to provided for all her children, will surely soften any hardened heart. Abraham, the young man I met, told me he wants to become a carpenter so he can go back to help his family. He's 14 years old.

Field trip to market, Zanzibar spices

The course complete, we said our goodbyes and all of us classmates who had now become friends went our different ways. I hitched a ride with my a new friend from class who happened to be traveling to Nairobi and, having made such good time traveling back, I was able to catch a flight back to Kitale a day earlier than expected. He dropped me off at the airport and with 3 hours to spare I found a quiet corner in a coffee shop, bought a large coffee, and spread out my books to do some revision. Imagine my surprise when I heard my name being called and looking up, seeing the face of a good friend and his wife beaming smiles at me. These were the same folks who have worked in the massive slum of Kibera over the past 20 odd years and have accomplished much against unbelievable odds. I have had the privilege this year of partnering with them to drill a well there, which, reaches into a very deep but abundant source of water some 800 feet down. The last time I had seen Chris Okuma he was in the U.S. trying to raise funds to buy the large, and therefore expensive pump, needed to bring that water to the surface.

'Chance' meeting!!!!!

"So how did things go in the States Chris?" I asked, as I folded up my books. "Oh very well bwana" he replied, "but I'm still short for the pump." He mentioned the figure and I knew what was to happen next, since, that same amount had recently been donated to me by a generous supporter at home. The pump will be installed in a week or so and literally tens of thousands of people will have access to clean water. Now I was not 'supposed' to be at the airport that day and as it turned out, Chris and his wife Joanne were only there to retrieve their luggage which had not arrived with them when they'd returned from the U.S. a couple of days earlier. Joanne had craved a cup of coffee that day in the same place I had tried to hide in a quiet corner. It all just goes to prove to me what should be obvious. I can't hide so long as I remain in His grasp.