The Rise and Fall of Heroes, Part 8 of Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 8 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

Huddled under the branches of a thorn tree, cold rain pounding against my back, I witnessed courage in action and felt small and weak in comparison. But I am used to that; I’ve spent a lifetime watching my warrior brother excel in all tests of life, out in front, and taking action while others shiver.

It was day 9, and we were anticipating the end of our journey with mixed emotions. We had taken a break under a shade tree on a dirt road adjacent to a school. A crowd hovered around our menagerie, spectators of the greatest show in town. The school’s soccer field was flat and grassy and tempted us as a campsite. Plus, the waning afternoon light and the black and foreboding sky over Lake Victoria were clear signs we needed to make camp soon. Unfortunately, the school’s headmaster wasn’t around, and without his permission, we decided it best to leave the road in search of another open space to make camp. As we walked through farmland rain fell, gently at first, showering our dust and fatigue away. “This feels good,” I exclaimed to Amanda. She smiled and tittered “mmm, yeah” with a concerned gaze skyward.

I put my camera in my pack and zipped it, but then it began to rain harder so I opened my pack and wrapped my rain jacket tightly around my camera. I was hot from the day of hiking and didn’t mind getting wet, but I worried about my camera getting rain-damaged. Pictures are treasures for me, and I felt greatly enriched by this trip’s rewards. And this was Africa, after all; the rain will pass and the sun will return its usual permeating warmth, drying clothes and lifting spirits.

And then from the west came a wall of wind and water so mighty the camels panicked. They pulled against the guides, straining their ropes, slipping and falling down in torrents of mud. Our spectators, locals accustomed to lake storms, laughed at our pandemonium. But soon they too were cowed to the corners, seeking shelter under thorn bushes not suitable for a goat.

I followed Amanda beneath a slightly taller bunch of trees and hunched my back to the storm. The wind, icy and fierce, pushed at my neck and I shook deeply – shivering like never before. I looked left and saw Amanda and Thea, thin and blue through sheets of gray water, huddled in vain under a useless umbrella.

And then I looked out to the clearing and saw my brother, David, his hat pulled low, his mouth and eyes set with determination, his knife in one hand slashing the taut sisal rope that tethered two camels head to tail, pulling in opposing directions. As one camel fled, David brought the other to its knees and unburdened it of crates and saddle before sending it off to graze with a loving pat on the rear end.

Time passed slowly under that thorn tree; the rain and wind were unrelenting. I shivered, paralyzed by the cold, watching camel after camel get unloaded and released. Tarps unrolled and equipment stowed, trenches dug, tents erected and blown away and retrieved, only to be taken again. Eventually the large tent surrendered to the storm and lay flat in the mud, its poles broken in a discarded heap. And I remember thinking, as I looked out at David and the other brave warriors who stayed for the fight, that they did not look defeated nor hypothermic like I felt. In fact, they looked enthused, energized and warm, eager to keep fighting. They were having the time of their lives battling nature and crowing defiance into the wind.

I shuddered and then bounded out to help, hoping some activity would warm me up. But I was too late, the activity had come to a halt, the job was finished until the rain abated. And so there I stood in the clearing, stomping my feet in the mud to stay warm as heavy drops continued to fall. David, seeing my sorry state, pulled a thermal blanket from his pack and wrapped it around my shoulders, ushering me under a tarp where other heroes squatted, sharing body heat and waiting out the storm. And he threw his big arm around me and hugged me until the chill and the rain subsided. It was a brotherly moment like no other, a lesson in vulnerability and strength, a gesture of love that I’ll not soon forget.

When the rains subsided, we crawled out from beneath the tarp and began gathering survivors and gear. I worked extra hard to set up camp. I needed to warm up and I felt guilty for not carrying my weight and helping when the monsoon hit us. But what I’ve learned about groups and adventure challenges is that there are heroic moments for each person when a hidden strength is encountered, one not known before, tucked away somewhere behind the senses of panic and fear. And then there are those vulnerable moments, when fatigue and dehydration have muddled your thoughts with waves of angst and poor decisions. And so you must rely on others to help you survive. The right group, one unified in a common goal and with a noble cause, allows for heroes to rise and fall like the tides, and the vulnerable to be carried in their fragile moments.

David seemed to ride the hero wave more often, however. As I furiously erected my tent, trying to get the fly on before the rain returned, I looked around for David to see if he had a rock or something for pounding my tent stakes. There on the ground next to my tent was his pack, fully loaded, and his tent still unrolled. Where did he go? I then looked left and saw David and Michael hoisting Thea high into the air, like a patient on a bamboo stretcher. She was flat on her back being placed feet first into her tent, a cocoon of dry warmth. I had not seen her since under the thorn tree, looking frail and cold through layers of gray rain. But the cold had soaked in deeper and Thea was now in danger of hypothermia. Michael and David were saving her life. I flinched to help, but by the time I got there the job, once again, was done. Thea was tucked between a mound of sleeping bags and Michael was working on warming her feet and legs. David stood up, an unassuming superman, unshaven and in safari clothes, looked once around the camp, a leader scanning for loose ends, and seeing none, headed over to set up his tent. He was the last man standing.

The rain never returned, and because it’s Africa, the sun came out and warmed our spirits and dried our clothes. Later that afternoon, I bought a half pint of moonshine from a local brewer, “chang’aa” as it’s called, and we sipped it in a circle and sang songs with dozens of children and villagers, the same that laughed and mocked us as we battled nature earlier – some more valiantly than others. Now the laughter was different; it was no longer a mocking laugh at our comedy of errors, but rather we laughed communally – some celebrating survival, some reveling in triumph, others in marvel over God’s good humor and grace … and some of us may have just been a little tipsy.

Looking back it probably would have been best to wear my rain jacket rather than give it to my camera. It was a poor decision, sacrificing self for art. But if I had chosen differently, worn my jacket and, like the heroes of that afternoon, battled beasts and nature for the common good, I would have missed that vantage point of witnessing David from under the thorn tree. And I would have missed the life-saving gestures of love given by a brother, offering warmth where there was none. And I would have missed being able to sip moonshine, proudly knowing that my older brother is still my hero.

And I found myself wondering, as we walked to end poverty, if what communities really need is a unifying noble cause, a common goal, and a culture that allows heroes to rise and fall with the tides, providing care for the vulnerable in their weakest moments.