this time I’ve already had a couple of communal meals of traditional Kenyan fare, reasonable portions of mysterious foodstuffs of questionable quality. The Hardisons’ policy of introducing visitors to what the locals eat and having us share most of our meals with them is one I applaud. And once I am able to shut off the “Public Health Warning” alert flashing in my frontal lobe, I like most of the vegetarian-type food offered. But the occasion to eat in the Big House, as I come to refer to it, becomes the high point of each day on which it is to occur. High points are hard to come by in Maseno. There is immense suffering, little diversion . . . no escape. We revel in whatever windfalls we get.
“Nan and Gerry serve dinner promptly at six thirty and you do not want to be late. Nan gets just furious!” David warns me. David is a veteran volunteer who is already into his sixth month of a yearlong commitment to St Philips. The angelic Nan I know, furious? Nah, not possible, I reassure myself. I’ll soon learn that I am mistaken about this. I’m not late, though.
Our bunch, a half dozen or so, of resident volunteers all stroll in the house together on time. When we get there, Nan and Gerry are each sitting in one of the stuffed chairs. The dogs instantly leap on us from where they were sprawled on old sheets on the dog couch. The same big table at which I had not eaten my first Kenyan meal is lavished in food—fresh handmade chapattis, beans, rice, some kind of cooked meat that smells not too terrible, slices of avocado, tomatoes and fresh pineapple, a tin of butter cookies, boxes of fruit juice, and lo and behold, two boxes of wine, one red and one white. But my brain doesn’t allow me to believe in the wine just yet. It would be too cruel and unusual a tease to dare hope. I am still a doubter so I pour some juice, a real treat in and of itself. There are glasses, plates, silverware, and even napkins. We line up on Nan’s instruction and begin serving ourselves buffet style, then find a seat and sit with our food in our laps. Not until we have all filled our plates do Nan and Gerry help themselves.
“So, who would like to say grace tonight?” Nan asks before anyone has begun eating. It is either David or Derrick who usually does the honors. Otherwise, it is Nan. We all bow our heads and one of them recites aloud a standard religious prayer rather more intricate than the “God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food” verse that I was raised with. The more literate churchgoers pray along. Then we all eat. The ravenous slurps and grateful moans of ecstatic diners echo throughout the Spartan room. The dogs drool rivers.
“Pam, you’re not having any wine?” Nan asks.
“Ha ha. No, I think I’ll pass,” I laugh between stuffed mouthfuls, intoxicated with the epicurean feast and thrilled to be treated as one of the gang, thinking I am being initiated into the fold with an inside joke.
“Well, it’s not fine wine, but it’s not half bad either,” Nan continues, a little offended. “Won’t you have some?” she coaxes.
“Wine? Really?” I risk.
“Really,” Stephanie nods.
“Are you sure?” I hesitate, not anxious to be punked.
“Sure,” David confirms as he stands to fetch me a glass. “Red or white?”
It is too good to be true. Before the evening has ended, both boxes are drained. If there is ice needing to be broken at my first dinner at the Hardisons’, the wine hacks the bejabbers out of it. Our wary band of befuddled, tired, hungry, nervous, full-bellied, and well-oiled volunteers mingles far less rigidly. Further fueled by the “not-half-bad” vino, some even begin to let their prim pride dissipate. Stephanie confesses to everyone that the greatest lesson she has learned from her Maseno experience is to “never switch from dry to wet deodorant in Africa.” As she airs her squelchy armpits we all howl. Someone makes a droll remark about the hospital that even Gerry chuckles at. Then he prompts Nan to sing their infamous “liver song,” one of the Hardison’s idiosyncratic pet amusements that I’ve already been forewarned about, and we all dissolve in hysterics right along with them even though most of us haven’t a clue why it is remotely funny. Derrick again proclaims the “absolutely no fat in the Kenyan diet” pledge like it is some fantastic new weight-loss scheme which I begin to believe it is. He brags that he lost a quarter of his mass the last time he came to the Maseno mission and David concurs, admitting that he was once a big fatty but has found staying slim and trim in Kenya to be an absolute breeze. I begin to wonder if the “reach your dream physique without really trying” pitch hasn’t appealed to a quorum of the folks here, a sleek silver lining to their faithful sacrifice. I can’t say that I myself have been entirely immune to the lure of that carrot stick, a “visit Africa, do good, lose weight,” all-inclusive package deal.
The happy-hour atmosphere is warm and loose. Being able to down a few while letting down our hair every now and again will, I am convinced, steel my resolve to spar with the best of them. I feel like I have arrived, so at one point in the evening I confess my unabashed thrill at not having to pretend to relish sobriety for the next couple months at St. Philips. A stern Nan corrects me. “Oh no, Pam. The mission is, for all intent and purpose, bone-dry, dear. In other words,” she goes on, “we keep our drinking strictly hush-hush. And we dispose of any incriminating evidence very discreetly.”
“Why the cloak-and-dagger bit?” I ask.
“Well, mostly so as not to offend, of course,” Nan explains. “But also so our image will not be sullied. We fear it will interfere with the work we are trying to do here and the goals we are attempting to accomplish. It could be misunderstood.”
“Tell her what we do with our empties,” Gerry urges with a devilish sneer. Besides playing straight man to Nan’s rendition of the liver song, he has barely said two words all night.
Nan lets loose a big guffaw and gurgles with the mischief of an errant adolescent. “We hide them in a bag and wait until we’re making a run to Kisumu. Then we sneak the bag into the car and pitch the empties out the window as we drive down the street!” She and Gerry both rock forward in their chairs and roar. I find myself unable to hold back the laughter as well, picturing this old missionary couple cackling like crones and merrily flinging dead soldiers out the window of their ancient vehicle as it swerves down the holey road to town.
While wandering around the grounds the next couple of days trying to get my bearings, I discover that the compound has three entrances and exits. The most used is the driveway through which the vehicles pass. The least used is barely a path at all, just trampled reeds in high grasses that poke through a hole in the fence, back behind the residential buildings. You have to bushwhack to get to it, and deadly snakes—a green Mamba most recently—have reportedly been caught and killed in the thick weeds. This path spills onto a couple of trails that weave through wild pastures, and lead via a shortcut, to the small business district of Maseno. I hardly ever use the back route. I don’t feel comfortable tackling this unpopulated passageway alone. When left to my own devices, I invariably take a wrong turn and get lost. Aside from nicer scenery and a somewhat shorter walk, the only advantage is that if done right, this course is a straight shot to the post office. Our only real reason for going to the post office is to send and receive e-mails on one of the antiquated computers set up there in a makeshift lab. But the Internet at the post office goes down the second day I am in Kenya, naturally right after I have purchased a bunch of access-coded time cards. It never comes back online during my stay. An additional reason for my reticence in using the rear trail is that there is no way that I can see to keep it secure. I never know who I might find lurking in the bushes. Hopefully the snakes are a deterrent to unwanted intruders, or at least do a number on those who are undeterred. In any event, I mostly come and go from door number three.
The side entrance, the one almost always used for foot traffic, has twenty-four-hour security. The guard carries a big stick, wears a uniform, lounges in a little hut, and waves lethargically as we enter or exit from the gate in the fence that leads out onto the dirt road. There is a padlock hanging at the entrance but I never see it closed. Nevertheless, I suspect that it is always locked after dark. “After dark” is a big deal in Kenya. Virtually no one goes out at all after the sun goes down and positively no one leaves the compound. Even the Kenyans are afraid to be out at night. While I’m in Kenya, sunset is around seven in the evening,