What mouse?

Media literacy teachers have promulgated various lists of “principles.” The lists always overlap to some extent, and without fail they include some variation on “no two people see the same image (or message) in exactly the same way.”

That seems as obvious as it is profound. We all bring our own unique associations and experiences to what we see. Accordingly, it is important to check perceptions, which is why after seeing a film we often ask, “Did you like it? What did you think of it?”

Recently I’ve wanted to add another dimension to the principle.

Each of us as individuals never sees the same image or message the same way twice. That’s because individually we change over time and location.

How would you perceive a glass of water if you were swimming in a fresh water lake? How would you perceive the very same image if you were in the middle of the desert?

How do you view a picture of Mickey Mouse as child? How do you see the same picture as an adult?

So in addition to checking perceptions with others, we need to check them internally, with ourselves. We need to repeatedly revisit what we have seen and what we think we know.

There’s much more to the principle beyond how each viewer perceives an image or a message.

The maker of the image or message must ponder the work from an unknowable multitude of perspectives of individuals in the audience. And not just how the audience members might perceive it today or tomorrow but in the unending (and unknowable) future.

And not just here but elsewhere, in radically different climates and cultures.

Attention Disney: As a Peace Corps Volunteer in Kenya in the mid-Sixties, I occasionally showed Mickey Mouse cartoons to my students. Afterwards I'd check perceptions of the famous mouse. To which many in the audience looked perplexed and responded, "What mouse?" Ever see a mouse wearing shoes, pants, gloves?

It’s a wonder we can communicate at all.

Matata comes to Kenya

Richard Wood and I were teachers together in Kenya’s western Nyanza Province in the late ‘60s at Rapogi Secondary School. Richard was a British teacher on contract, and I was a Peace Corps Volunteer.

Although Richard lives in England, we have have stayed in close touch, exchanged several visits and write from time to time about Kenya and our students. Troubled about the current crisis there, Richard has sent these thoughts for posting on The Red Electric.


“Hakuna Matata,” they used to say in Kenya: "There’s no problem here."

For decades it was true.

There could be genocide in Rwanda, chaos in Congo, civil war in Angola, mass starvation in Ethiopia, every form of corruption in Zimbabwe and so on throughout the continent of Africa. Yet somehow Kenya stayed sane — until now.

The madness has come to Kenya. Not only to Kenya but to Nyanza province. To Eldoret and Kisumu. Tomorrow, no doubt, to Kisii, Homa Bay and Migori. Those are places I have been — to shop, to visit, to make friends. Places in my life.

Suddenly it’s like standing on the deck of a storm-tossed ship. Your belly lurches and won’t leave you alone. Hundreds massacred in a church. Fighting on the streets. Houses torched. Buses ambushed. Thousands on the move.

The TV shows the familiar red murram roads, the corrugated iron roofs and whitewashed mud walls, the banana plantations, the distant misty hills, the overarching vastness of the blue sky. And the people, talking magnificent Luo English, explaining their bewilderment, their grief and their fury that their neighbors have turned upon them, used their pangas to slash throats instead of maize.

They are Luos, my people, the people I worked for and lived among, admittedly for a short time but they were the years that transported me from boy to man.

"Hakuna matata." No problem here. But we deceived ourselves.

There was always the potential for an explosion of violent tribal rivalry in Kenya, especially between the Kiyuyu and the Luo. It was alright when the Kikuyu were in control, but the potential for trouble always was that the Luo, the second biggest Kenyan tribe, had the knack of producing charismatic leaders, men capable of taking on the Kikuyu hierarchy.

In colonial times, Kenya spawned Mau Mau, the fiercest of all the independence movements that eventually turfed the Europeans out of Africa. The Mau Mau heartland was the so-called "White Highlands," the rich agricultural land of central Kenya, where the whites made themselves comfortable beyond the imagination of the folks back home in Britain, and from where they were eventually driven by pangas in the night. The Brits imprisoned the great African leader, Jomo Kenyatta, a Kikuyu, of course. The schisms of the independence movement came together in their demand for the release of "Mzee," the wise old man.

Among the leaders who set aside his personal ambitions in order to harangue the Brits was Oginga Odinga, a colorful, intelligent, principled African who was, everyone knew, presidential material through and through. A Luo. When the Brits admitted that their time was up and allowed the great “terrorist” Kenyatta his freedom to become the first president of independent Kenya, Odinga became his vice president. It was a great arrangement and saw the new state off to a flying start, with quality men of integrity in charge. In the Cabinet was another top quality man, another Luo, Tom Mboya. Tom came to Rapogi one day and I well remember the sense of being in the presence of a powerful figure.

Shortly after I left Kenya he was assassinated. Around that time Kenyatta and Odinga fell out. The potential for massive trouble rumbled in Kenya, but the line held. Odinga’s demanded a two-party democracy. Indeed, he formed a second party, but it was soon banned.

The funny thing was that when Kenyatta moved on he was replaced not by a Kiyuyu but by Daniel arap Moi, a member of a minority tribe. That worked, in part, because the Kikuyu were not threatened by so small a tribe. The third presidency, that of Kibaki, brought control back to the Kikuyu. In December he had to face up to elections. It would have been fine, I’m sure, if his opponent had been another minor tribesman, but he wasn’t. He was no less that Oginga Odinga’s own son, Raili. The only way to have saved Kenya from its current bloodshed would have been for Kibaki to have shown his Luo rival the same respect as had existed in the days of Kenyatta and the elder Odinga.

I’m feel helpless as I watch the news. The scene has switched from the deserts of Sudan and the baffling vastness of the Congo to my own Kenya, and the only thing I know is that from now on there will be plenty — plenty "matata."

Cry, the beloved country

The words above are the title of a powerful, poetic book Alan Paton wrote about South Africa. I’ve thought of that title many times in recent days as I’ve read the news from Kenya.

I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Kenya from 1965 to 1967. In that time I considered this Texas-sized state my beloved country, second only to America in my allegiance.

Its stunning diversity, from the powdery white sands of Mombasa and Malindi beaches, to majestic Mount Kenya, to the breathtaking escarpments of the Great Rift Valley, to the luxuriant highlands, on westward to the glistening, vast Lake Victoria, known to Kenyans as “Nyaza.”

To the graceful, proud people with their passion to learn and eagerness to share.

To the plains and the wilds, home to beasts — wildebeest, zebra, elephant, giraffe, lions, impala, hyena. To the shimmering, singing birds in the thorn trees and jacaranda.

To the distant drums in the equatorial, alpine night.

I taught in a secondary school in western Kenya. Kisumu, in chaos today, was the regional capital. My students came from three tribes, but most were Luo, an ebony black Nilotic people, the nation’s second largest. Their language, their customs and their features and coal-black skin made them starkly different from the Kenyan majority of Bantu-speaking tribes. Still, the young country under the leadership of Jomo Kenyatta forged “Umoja, “ oneness, unity.

Kenyans took the nation’s exclamatory motto, Harambee! to heart. It meant “pull together,” and they did. For those three years, I pulled along side them. Harambee!

The recent tumultuous election has swept all that aside. Tribal politics has unleashed suspicion, division and prejudice. The horror of it makes me wonder whether Kenya ever was a country. Was it merely, as skeptics said, a colonial concoction, its borders drawn, as they were, in Europe?

Was it a pseudo-nation built of slogans and cobbled tribal coalitions?

Or can it be again the beloved country I knew? Can it bind its wounds, wipe away its tears, heal and be whole?

I have mentioned before that Quakers have an image for silent, healing prayer. We hold those in need in the Light.

In silence, across time and space, I hold beloved Kenya in the Light.

Chill of Surveillance, the "Freedom" of Silence

It was only a matter of time before Stanislaus Obul would gain access to the internet. Stanislaus, one of my students from Peace Corps days in Kenya, lives in Sudan.

We are both old men now, ”wazee,” in Swahili. In Africa, we are granted the respect that comes with age. We speak our minds; people listen. They think we are wise; we know better, but speak we do.

Back in the mid-Sixties at our school in western Kenya, we both stood out.

Stanislaus, like me, was a foreigner, and was tall, perhaps 6’3.” (In the wisdom of my youth, I taught him how to play basketball.) His Dinka tribe is in the non-Arab south of Sudan, a vast country ruled by Arabs.

I stood out because I was the only American on the remote little campus run by an order of Dutch Catholic teaching brothers. Soon, other Americans would join me in my tour at Rapogi Secondary School, but for a few months, early in my three-year tour, I was as much of an oddity as the tall Dinka youth.

After graduating from Rapogi, Stanislaus returned to Sudan, a country wracked by civil war, brutal banditry and terror. We had corresponded over the years. At one point I had sent money so his wife could buy a sewing machine, but the money never found its way through the Sudanese postal system to her.

In recent years, as the Darfur conflict in western Sudan worsened, I became worried about Stanislaus’ welfare. I had written him three years ago and had heard nothing, until last Saturday

There in my e-mail in-box was a message from Stanislaus. It bore a two-letter note line greeting: “hi.”

In the letter he wrote: “We are still far away from each other, but now with this modern communication, you shall know about where I am.”

Indeed. But what is it now safe to tell each other? Could we share our thoughts?

As I wrote him back, expressing my relief and my on-going concern for his safety, I also wanted to tell him about my concern for my own country and about my opposition to the Iraq war and the Bush/Cheney administration.

And that’s when a chill swept through me.

Here I was an American e-mailing a Sudanese. Wasn’t this is exactly the kind of communication that the American government was “monitoring”? No warrant necessary.

Who else would be reading what I had to say? How might they interpret my anti-government remarks? How might my e-mail affect Stanislaus, who has relatives living here in the United States? How might they be affected?

I have recently been appalled by Kafka-esque deportation of musicologist Nalini Ghuman by our government. If the government could do that to her, what might they do to Stanislaus’ relatives who have found refuge here?

And so I did not share my views about the Bush administration and its Oil War in Iraq. I did not tell him of being part of our anti-war vigil here in Hillsdale, off my placard reading “On to Plan B: IMPEACH!”

In essence, the surveillance of messages between this country and abroad was stifling my speech.

In a small way, the repressive Bush administration’s “War on Terror” had found its way into the sanctity of my cluttered study. It had frozen my fingers on the keyboard.

Even as I write this a twinge of fear has returned because this Red Electric post, as a public form of expression, is also a communication to those abroad who choose to read it. I gave Stanislaus the URL for the Red Electric so he could read my thinking and get a sense of my life and interests.

Might the words “Sudan” and “terrorism” in this sentence and elsewhere in this post trigger some U.S. government surveillance computer? Will these words cause some secretive repercussion on Stanislaus, his family and me?

Do those repercussions stop with us, or does do the government’s surveillance computers record the names of Americans who freely choose to read these words. Are you being watched?

America likes to think of itself as “The Land of the Free.” How free can we be when our secretive, increasingly authoritarian government spies on what we write and what we read?

Will we soon arrive at the day when we are “free” only to be silent, only to be ignorant?

Part V: A Day between Two Mountains

This is the last of five-part reminiscence from my time in Kenya as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the mid-Sixties. See the first four parts in posts from earlier this week.

Ali and I slowly emerged from the desert and its maze. The road straightened. Clusters of sage-like brush appeared along the roadside, then the shade-making, flat-topped acacia “umbrella trees." We passed a pair of camels laden with sticks and guided by an ancient herder. A gazelle clan stared at us from afar before bounding away, their white tails flicking in retreat.

The road turned to tarmac at the crossroad garrison town of Isolo. We passed the armed jeep, which had pulled to the side of the road. We waved good-byes and thanks to its dust-covered driver and machine gunner.

From here it was another hour to Nanyuki and the home of the owner of the Ali’s lorry, Mr Singh, one the thousands of Asians in Kenya’s merchant class.

I would be welcomed, Ali assured me.

We gained elevation again. The coolness of the evening, the forests and the heights enfolded us. Nanyuki is still known to most westerners as the place where the actor William Holden built his resort, the famed Mt. Kenya Safari Club. Even at dusk it was easy to see how he chose it. Nanyuki is safe and pristine, tucked away in a canopy of giant trees and guarded by the mountain slopes.

Mr. Singh and his family lived in an ample rectangular compound of white washed, single-story buildings. The compound’s gates were thrown open, Ali drove the truck into the courtyard, and Singh himself ran out to greet us, knowing full well the dangers of the journey. As a Peace Corps volunteer, I was a welcomed with surprise and made a cause for added celebration.

Singh insisted I stay with the family that night before heading to Nairobi in the morning. He led me to a guest room which had an adjacent, and much welcomed, shower.

“You take your shower and then come out to the courtyard and we’ll get you a scotch and curry. You have had curry, haven’t you?”
As a matter of fact, I had never had curry, I admitted. It wasn’t a dish common to Illinois.
“Well, then, you are in for a treat.”

Indeed I was.

Scotch in hand, I sat with Mr. Singh and his family around the outdoor charcoal burner and gazed into the embers and the curry pot. The pungent amber curry bubbled and steamed into the mountain air. The spicy richness of the exotic flavors melded with the scotch, the celebration, the camaraderie, the distant desert, the day and the danger.
That night, I slept as soundly as I have ever slept.

I have treated myself to hundreds of curries since that first one around the fire in Nanyuki. None has tasted so good, and each has renewed memories of that day between mountains so far away and long ago.

Part IV: A Day Between Two Mountains

The following is the fourth of a five-part reminiscence from my time in Kenya as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the mid-Sixties. See the first three parts in posts from earlier this week.

Once we hit the open road, the convoy began to stretch out as each driver tested the limits of his vehicle. After a half hour or so we were off the mountain and well into the desert maze of canyons and wadis. No one wanted to linger in the desert.

Soon the truck in front of us had disappeared around several curves in a shallow, bone-dry ravine. Not even its tell-tale dust hung above the road. There was no telling how far ahead or behind our armed protectors were.

I was still looking for my opportunity to mention the Shifta when Ali announced that we were approaching a dangerous place.

“You say what?”
“We were attacked here once. It is a good place for attacking.”
“When was that?”
“Last year. See that hole above your head? That’s from the attack.”

I looked at the jagged, finger-sized hole not six inches from my scalp. There were others as well, behind me in the cab and on the driver’s side.
“What about these?” I asked.
“Those are from other times. In other places. I will show you.”

Ali pressed on, pointing to a plateau above a wide place in the wadi. “That’s the place they hide,” he said without looking. But nothing happened, no shots, no new bullet holes.

We sped on.

“Tell me before the next dangerous place, OK?” I said, not sure that I really wanted to know.
“The next place is soon. See that dent?” he said pointing to one on the door frame. “That was caused by the bullet that killed my friend who was sitting where you are. It hit him in the head. The place is around the next bend.”

Again, Ali rocketed past the place, waving vaguely at the fatal ambush perch.

At one point we came up on a truck from our convoy. It was pulled over to the roadside. Ali slowed some distance away and approached cautiously. Only when he was certain it wasn’t a trap, did he pull along side. The driver was tying down cargo that had worked itself loose.

Never had a road so fully engaged me. The dust, the heat, the rugged, lifeless terrain. Most striking, of course, was the fear locking me to the landscape. Yet for Ali and the others whose trips between Moyale and Nanyuki were notched by bullet holes, fear was a mere occupational hazard, part of a way of life.

The Shifta were, and still are, a stateless people. They didn’t take kindly to Kenya’s independence or claim of ownership or military presence. Just as they never had accepted the Europeans or their absurd colonial boundaries. For centuries these desert warriors had raided the Oromo tribal groups—the Rendille, the Boran and the Gabra I had encountered at the clinic. To the Shifta, war and pillaging are manly virtues. The Oroma are considered weak. At best they are regarded as mystical.

But mysticism matters little to the Shifta warrior culture. In the desert, mysticism is no match for the glory of armed victory. As for the Peace Corps, I could only guess how the Shifta would perceive it. Alien certainly, some human anomaly.

The landscape that I experienced as a fearful passage, the Shifta regarded as a proving ground.

To be continued....

Part III: A Day Between Two Mountains

The following is the third of a five-part reminiscence from my time in Kenya as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the mid-Sixties. See the first two parts in posts from earlier this week.

I spent the day at the Marsabit Secondary School and then in Marsabit Town, arranging my ride back. I could catch a ride on a lorry, part of a convoy leaving at sunrise the next day. It seemed simple enough. Weary from staying up half the night at the lodge, I fell into one of those deep mountain-high slumbers.

I was literally blasted awake.

My host had failed to tell me that the principal elephant path to town ran just outside the bedroom window. Emboldened elephants often pounded down the trail from the mountain to the vegetable shambas below. There they fed on lettuce and yams and bananas until they had had their fill or were frightened away by alert guards.

When the old bull bellowed, he must have been no more than a bed’s length away. The blast erupted from deep inside him and ripped me from sleep.

Nearly as unnerving, the thudding, lumbering, snorting herd shook the room for a good two or three minutes.

Finally the shaking lessened, the foot fall faded and mountain sleep enfolded me again. I never heard the elephants on their return up the path. In the early morning, I was roused by the throngs of birds. The elephants seemed no more than an African dream.

My pack slung on my back, I set out to join the convoy south. I strode down the road from the school to the town through the chill mountain air. Fingers of mist clung to the ground and hung in the trees. In the market square at the center of the town, the lorries idled and puffed out wisps of exhaust. The drivers clutched themselves against the cold.

They were waiting for the soldiers to arrive.

It was the first I heard of soldiers. The news was as chilling as the cold.

The word was out that the Shifta, notorious Somali bandits, were working the area again. They had been known to attack lorries venturing alone on the Moyale road.

The thought of being in an armed convoy and fighting off nomadic bandits in the desert clashed with my exalted sense of my humanitarian Peace Corps mission. Suddenly the dangers in the desert confronted my cause. But I had no choice. My fate was yoked to the convoy’s.

Soon our military protectors arrived in two olive drab, machine-gun equipped Jeeps and an army truck loaded with 10 or so soldiers. The plan was for one Jeep to lead the way. The convoy would follow. Behind it came the remaining Jeep and truck with its soldiers bringing up the rear.

I climbed into the lorry assigned me and struck up a conversation with Ali, the wizened Ethiopian driver. The truck was laden with gunny sacks of charcoal, the principal domestic fuel in East Africa. A tool in his trade between Ethiopia and Kenya, Ali’s English was far better than my Swahili. English allowed us to get to know each other.

Turned out that Ali had a half-brother who drove a cab in Chicago. To this day I have concluded that anyone you meet abroad has a half-brother who drives a cab in Chicago or Manhattan.

At any rate, I grew up 90 miles from Chicago. I’ve even hailed cabs in Chicago. Small world, Ali remarked as he gunned the engine, eased into low and coaxed the lorry into its assigned place in the convoy.

I didn’t want to bring up my concerns about the Shifta alert. At least not right away. I assumed that a natural transition to the topic would present itself. Besides, Ali had enough to do as the convoy lurched out of town. He conveyed a stoic acceptance as he went about his work, wheeling the lorry around chuck holes. If he harbored fear, he didn’t show it.

As Marsabit fell behind us, the convoy got up to speed. Surprisingly, the trucks eagerly hurtled down the shoulder of the mountain for the desert. I had falsely assumed our escorts would keep us close together for protection, in case we needed to perform an East African version of circling the wagons or some such defensive maneuver. But no, the intent drivers in control of our fates had a different strategy. They shortened our time of vulnerability with raw speed. The convoy raced flat out across the desert leaving billowing wakes of dust behind us. The drivers followed each other at a distance determined by the time it took for the dust to settle and their visibility to be restored.

Ali and I did not share what we both knew: The clouds of rising desert dust were a clear invitation to bandit gangs.

To be continued....

Part II: A Day Between Two Mountains

This is the second of five parts. Part one was the previous post.

Marsabit is an extinct mile-high volcano rising above the hard-scrabble wasteland like a tropical island in an vast ocean. Once the volcano was surrounded by lush plains similar to the famous Serengeti or Masai Mara to the south. But overgrazing and changing weather patterns have eaten away at the vegetation, turning the plain to desert.

The devastation now licks at the feet of Mount Marsabit. The desert cuts off the mountain, leaving its crater lakes and forests as an isolated refuge for elephant, lion, leopard, greater kudu, baboon, gazelle, onyx, giraffe, buffalo, monkeys and 13 species of bats. The dense forest is also home to 350 kinds of birds, who greet each day with riotous, cacophonous song in the cold, misty, pre-dawn hours.


We arrived with some note and ceremony from local dignitaries. I settled in at the local high school, where a Peace Corps colleague had been appointed headmaster. Marsabit Secondary School was a five minutes’ walk up the foot of the mountain from Marsabit town, a huddle of shops separated from the vast forest by neatly tended gardens and banana plantations.

I put in my time at the clinic in the town, helping clean boils, blisters and abrasions. The patients were reticent, dignified inhabitants of the desert. They carried their solitude with them. Rendille, Borana and Gabra, they were all dark skinned Nilotic peoples, unlike the Hamitic traders from Ethiopia to the north or the Semitic Somali to the east.

The Ethiopians and Somali were present in Marsabit too. The mountain’s temperate micro climate creates an oasis on the ancient trade route between the highlands of Ethiopia and the fertile, populated lands to the south beyond Mt. Kenya. The road I had seen from the sky passed through Marsabit town, linking Moyale 100 miles north near the Ethiopia/Kenyan border with Nanyuki, nestled on the lush slopes of the Mt. Kenya 125 miles to the south.

Like any visitor to Mt. Marsabit, I wanted to plunge into the forests of mountain preserve and seek out its game. But before I had a chance to set out up the mountain with my Peace Corps friend, the doctor was summoned to fly to distant Lake Rudolf on an emergency. He would not return to Marsabit for another month. I could either go with him or stay behind to drive up the mountain. Staying would mean returning to Nairobi across the desert on the 100-mile-long stretch of road between Marsabit and Nanyuki. I decided to stay. The journey up the mountain seemed worth the trip across the desert.


The mountain safari was an overnight venture. My Peace Corps colleague and I traveled by Land Rover on a one-lane dirt track, setting out at dusk when the big game were also on the move to their watering holes. It turned out that at least one was taking the same road we were.

Rounding a corner in the forest, we found ourselves suddenly confronted by the bulky backside of a lumbering water buffalo. He was the size of our Land Rover and probably weighed twice as much. Suddenly, he wheeled around, choosing to face us down. His black muzzle dripping with saliva, he lowered his battering ram horns and pawed the road.

He froze; we froze. We inched ahead; he lurched toward us, then recoiled. We honked the horn; he didn’t flinch. A beast accustomed to trumpeting elephants and roaring lions has little regard for honking Land Rovers.

Finally we did the one thing he had never encountered. We flicked on the headlights. Stunned and blinded, the buffalo stepped back, then leaped over the embankment with the grace of a fullback surmounting a line of scrimmage. We listened as he crashed through the forest for what seemed like a full minute.

That night we hunkered down in bedrolls at an abandoned lodge on the edge of a lagoon where we had placed salt licks as an additional lure. We knew that the animals wouldn’t be out in force until 2 a.m. or so. We tried to sleep and push aside our imaginings of noises in the night.

After hours of restless vigilance, we heard noises that were undeniably real. We peered out into the moonless night at Goliath shapes no more than 30 yards from us. Grunts and wheezes shaped all kinds of imaginings. Certainly there were the hulks of elephants though how many we couldn’t be sure. And was that a rhino to the left of the far salt lick? Could our nemesis, the buffalo, his composure restored, be out there in the gray-black gloom as well? Much of what we saw was phantasm.

Eventually, the herds and their hangers-on, real and imagined, retreated into the forest, and we went back to sleep not quite sure what we had seen.

To be continued....

Part I: A Day between Mountains

Over the past seven years I have written several unpublished pieces for my writers' group in Longview, Washington. This five-part recollection of a long-ago day full of fear and good fortune was one of those submissions.

Here is the first installment.

Forty-three years ago, in the flush of youthful idealism and a fog of indecision about what to do with the rest of my life, I became a Peace Corps Volunteer in Kenya.

The country, newly emergent from British colonial rule, was aglow with its own idealism. It didn’t have the luxury of indecision about what to do next. The intervening years have proven that both the country and I were grossly unrealistic. Volunteerism and independence are no guarantees of progress.

Regardless, my three years in East Africa as a young man shaped me. They were the best post-graduate education I could have hoped for. The warmth of the people, the challenges and intrigues presented by their cultures and beauty of the East African landscape are still with me.
At the end of my tour, the Luo tribal elders of our village gave me an ugly but functional shield crafted of warthog hide. They assured me that it would protect me for the rest of my life. I have taken them at faith. Wherever I have lived or worked, I have mounted the bristly monstrosity on a wall. Whether because of the shield, or just good luck, I have been protected all these years.

But there was one day in Kenya, more than a year before I was given the shield, when I could have used its security—symbolic or actual.

I taught in a secondary school in remote South Nyanza Province, the very region, as it turns out, that Barak Obama's father called home.

The school, managed by Dutch Catholic brothers, was about 20 miles from Lake Victoria as the crane flew. At sunset, the great lake glowed golden on the horizon, gilding dusk's sky.
Amongst my Peace Corps contingent, I took secret pride in having been assigned to the second most remote posting. The boarding school compound with its lime green, ground-hugging, metal-roofed buildings was at the end of miles of road that crossed the Great Rift Valley, a sizable mountain chain the territories of five tribes—the Kikuyu, the Masai, the Kalenjen, the Kisii and the Luo.

If Rapogi Secondary School was the second most remote posting, I wondered, what could be the first?

I decided I would find out. On a break between semesters, I would venture to it, wherever it might be.

And that is how I ended up on Mount Marsabit in Kenya’s Northern Frontier District.
To get to it, I journeyed all day by bus to Nairobi and then early the next morning, caught a lift with “The Flying Doctor.” To this day, the name conjures up episodes from “The Flying Nun.” But the doctor, an important part of Kenya’s rudimentary health system, was no sit-com character. Without him and his single-engine plane, vast expanses of the country would have had no health care at all.

In exchange for the flight, I volunteered to work for three days at the district health clinic in the town of Marsabit.

The four-seat Cessna lifted off the Nairobi airfield and headed due north over the luxuriant emerald highlands that white settlers had hoped would be theirs forever. We flew over Thika, made famous by author Elspeth Huxley, then climbed over the dense bamboo forests blanketing the broad shoulders of Mount Kenya. Its broken volcanic core straddles the equator. Its 17,000-foot summit, the second highest in Africa after Kilamanjaro, is often dusted with snow. We dipped around the peak, then set out across a dun-colored plain dotted with acacia trees and mixed herds of antelope, giraffe and zebra.

A single, straight road—tarmac to the crossroad military post of Isiolo, then dirt—caught my attention. It sliced across the plain until, after 40 or so miles, fingers of erosion interrupted its path. The route was then forced to wind and pick its way across the broken landscape.
I didn’t realize it then, but I would come to know the road all too well.

The little plane droned on under the clear desert sky. Weary of tracing the solitary road’s circuitous course, I focused on the curdled pattern of wadis, dry ravines and canyons that etched the desert. Trees and game vanished. If there was life below, it crouched in the caves and crevasses tucked along the dry river beds.

Unable to speak above the engine’s rasp, the doctor/pilot touched my shoulder, interrupting my exploration of the desert maze. He pointed to the outline of our destination: Mount Marsabit barely visible in the purple haze along the horizon.

To be continued....

A post-peace march encounter with the past

So Portland’s Peace march was bigger than Seattle’s. Who knows, it may have topped San Francisco’s.

Well, never mind. This is not some March Madness peace play-off between cities.

Besides, the evening news tonight is spending more time on a handful of anarchists jousting with police in front of the Justice Center than it is on shots of the winding, quirky, sardonic, bitter march for peace.

And then there was my ride back from the march on the trolley….

An in-your-face guy in his fifties seated across the aisle spots my “Wage Peace” sign and says, “So you’d rather fight them here than over there?”

I’m never good with impromptu retorts, which is probably just as well, but this guy won’t let my silence stand.

“So you’d rather fight them here than over there—and, believe me, we WILL be fighting them here.”

Silence.

“Serve in ‘Nam?” he asks.

“What?”

“Did you serve in Vietnam?”

“No,” I say.

“Did you ever serve anywhere?”

“I was in the Peace Corps in Africa for three years helping people,” I offered.

“Some people don’t want help.”

“Well the people I helped sure did.”

“Some people don’t want help,” he repeated.

“The people I helped CERTAINLY did.”

It was his turn for silence.

Two more trolley stops and he got off in stony silence.

They call Portland “weird,” but they don’t know the half of it.

When my antagonist watches the news tonight, will he remember the Returned Peace Corps Volunteer he encountered on the bus, or will he be focused on the hand-cuffed anarchists being carted off by the police?

Or will we be one in the same?

As for me, I wonder what this Vietnam vet went through 40 years ago that delivered him into the hands of George W. Bush, who never served anywhere for this country.

And still doesn’t.