Lalmba News – From the Rubble

May 20, 2016 Jeff & Hillary James News

by Jeff James

Thorn bushes fortified with vines fenced the compound, a homestead once occupied by a vibrant and strong Luo family. Standing as corner posts like castle sentries, jacaranda trees adorned in purple blossoms radiate harmony and distract from recent memories of death. The shells of vacated houses lay heaped in broken piles around the courtyard, like figurative burial mounds, cluttering the grounds and serving as grim reminders that a tragedy has occurred; one that could have been prevented, perhaps.

But one house remains standing. With 4 mud walls, 10 feet across and 6 feet tall, capped with a rusted tin roof, this is the home of Gladys Onyango, a grandmother well over 80 years old with 11 beautiful grandchildren (9 pictured), ages 6 to 15, all of whom are orphans.

When we arrived, Gladys was resting in her plastic chair under the eaves of the roof, a cool sliver of respite from the mid-day sun. A cluster of children played in the dry earth, kicking a soccer ball made of plastic bags and string. A few chickens pecked about the dirt in search of a tasty insect. When Gladys saw us pull up in the Land Cruiser, she picked up her chair, nodded at us, and ducked under the roof, disappearing into the darkness of her home. The children stopped playing and followed her inside. This was their home too, and we had been officially welcomed.

It was a poorly lit house with a shiny dirt floor polished smooth by bare feet and daily sweeping. It was tidy. Crudely made benches lined one wall, and baskets and pans hung from the ceiling in the corners, displayed like utilitarian artwork, unintentional yet inspired. In the middle of the house, a wall divided the sleeping from the living quarters. I stood there, peering into the dark room of slumber and tried to imagine how 12 people could sleep in a space so small. I imagined a heap of bodies, comfortably intertwined, feeling safe, loved, and dreaming of happier days, days before the family shattered. Life can explode sometimes, but our desire to love and connect will always reveal a path back to wholeness.

All the adults sat down, and the children stood around. We shared our stories and a sobering cup of conversation. Tea would have been offered, were there any, but you see, Gladys is the sole guardian of these children, having lost her family: 3 sons, their 6 wives, her husband and 2 sister wives, to AIDS. Polygamy no doubt contributes to the spread of HIV here, but there are hopeful signs that monogamy is becoming the norm among a younger generation of Luo.

Food for the Onyango family is scarce, and the children are often hungry. With her age, the responsibility of providing for 11 children is more than Gladys can handle. Farming and pulling fishing nets from the lake had been her life’s work, but now it’s difficult. All of the children help, sharing the burden of responsibility, but they are also all in school — a blessing and a mark of pride for the Onyango clan. Everyone knows that education can bring liberation; in every impoverished community there’s a legend of the smart one who got away. The Onyango kids have a chance, not an easy one, for their path out of poverty has many obstacles.

Lalmba helps Gladys and her grandchildren by providing some basic assistance, and a community center where they can turn for support. The children are enrolled in Lalmba’s children’s program, and receive school support, health care, and supplemental nutrition. The services are basic, but they are lifesaving and empowering. Gladys’ grandchildren have heard the inspirational stories of former Lalmba orphans, real legends, to inspire them with a sense of purpose and hope. (See “Gift of Hope” below)

If one searches long enough through a rubbish heap, a treasure will be found. That treasure gives hope, and sometimes it’s just the catalyst one needs to rebuild life. And so, I think, from those broken homes, those mounds of despair that clutter the Onyango homestead, a castle should be built, and within it, a happy, intact family should live. And “from the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring; renewed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king.” – J.R.R. Tolkien

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And empower impoverished children to prosper

Romeo Rodriguez, Chiri Health Center Project Director, enjoys his time at the Chiri Children’s Home.

Reflections From a Lalmba Volunteer

by Romeo Rodriguez

I have been a volunteer in other countries including Uganda and my own Guatemala, and there is always that feeling of wanting to do all you can and more for the people, and always that sense of fulfillment at the end of the day, even after a rough day. Working in Lalmba-Chiri Health Center has been no different and also a significant enriching and growing experience. Not only because of the length of my stay in rural Ethiopia but for the tremendous impact that Lalmba has had in Chiri and the whole area, and all the challenges that have been there and that are implicit to the job. Those could be from making tough decisions when dealing with local health authorities, or local staff, to having to drive a patient at 4:00 am to Bonga Hospital, when our driver is unreachable, or picking up a delivering mother with complications from one of the surrounding villages.

My heart beats fast as the woman screams and I’m not sure whether to drive faster or slower over the bumpy roads of our area. Sometimes it happens that the woman begins labor in the middle of the journey and I have to stop. Then the time seems to run slowly as I worry about the health of both mother and baby. But thanks to our wonderful staff, the accompanying nurse attends her well and then we proceed to the health center with an extra healthy passenger.

Sometimes after the end of regular working hours I like to go down to the Children’s Home where they always make me smile and laugh, especially the little ones when they run to greet me. I think they like me and I’m so glad because I truly love them. I dream about their future, about the dreams of their own and I know that the good memories of growing together with everything they need and with the love and care of their home in Chiri will remain with them forever.

It often happens that when I walk in Chiri or even Bonga town I hear people murmuring “Lalmba” and it makes me think about the many different stories I have heard from people who have been saved or cured at the health center, or how they’ve been supported through other Lalmba programs. And then I think about Hugh and Marty. I wonder if they dreamed about having this great impact in different ways for so many people in Africa. And I feel honored and grateful for having the chance to do my small contribution to this program, for growing and learning together with local and expatriate staff, and for being part of this family and this wonderful story; not just a story of aid but the story of love that is Lalmba.

Romeo and Tafesse have made a great team running Lalmba Ethiopia.

Romeo’s 2-year term with Lalmba ends in January 2017. His quiet, strong model of leadership has allowed him to make lifelong friends in the community while also making difficult decisions on a daily basis. We have been blessed to have him in this role, and we are dusting off a space for him in the Lalmba Hall of Fame.

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“The Lord truly knows the hopes of the helpless, and brings justice to orphans …” ~Psalm 10:17-18

Gift of Hope:

A Letter from a former Lalmba orphan

by Kenneth O. Odida

The four years after the death of my father seemed a lifetime! I still look back and wonder how I managed to wade through successfully. I was only a 6-year-old innocent soul, hardly understood a thing.

At the time Lalmba came into my life, my education had reached a dead end. I was only in class four, and my grandmother, with whom I stayed, already could not afford to pay my school fees. The fee wasn’t much though, only about $3 a year. I remember the school principal allowing me to stay in class when others who couldn’t pay their fees were sent home. I did not know for how long he was going to excuse me from paying fees.

One thing I thank God for is the gift of hope. Despite the challenges we faced at home, I always remained at the top of my class. The big dreams my father inculcated in me just wouldn’t go away. Staying with my grandmother, we would often go without food. We didn’t have soap to do our washing nor have a proper bath. At some point, my friends at school would tease me that I was the dirtiest of all. And we would laugh about it, because they too were not clean.

Although my mom had passed on three years earlier when I was 3, it was dad’s death that brought me face-to-face with hardship. Somehow, he had managed to seal the hole left by my mom’s death. He would walk me to school before leaving for work, a rare thing for village kids those days.

I joined Lalmba’s Ongoro Children’s Home in August 1999; I was in class 4 then. At last I had gotten a home where food was not a problem, and clothing not a challenge. With my basic needs taken care of, I could now concentrate on my studies. I used my time at Ongoro to shape my future. I would occasionally be the translator when western volunteers came to work. It was a rare opportunity to interact with educated people from other countries and cultures.

I worked hard and finished grade 8 in a first position, and then proceeded to high school, fully sponsored by Lalmba. In a few years’ time, I would start my undergraduate course in pharmacy and finally become a man in the society. All of my accomplishments are courtesy of Lalmba, and Hugh Downey’s noble idea.

The Downeys are old people now, aging gracefully in their Nyagiribe home in Kenya. But their little work in Africa has had tremendous impact on my life, and on lives of many others. Today, I work for the government of Kenya as a hospital pharmacist. I graduated with a PharmD in December 2013, and plan to enroll for MPH (Masters in Public Health) pretty soon. I’m so glad that Lalmba supported me to exploit my gift of hope and turn my life around!

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The Gift of Hope

Tembea Na Mimi 2017 Walker Application

PICTURE THIS:

Sights from our African Journeys

Dereje, grade 4, an RCAR orphan living in Chiri.

Barbershop, Main Street, Chiri

Along the road to Migori, Kenya

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For healthier communities tomorrow.

A Critical Year for Realizing Dreams

April 7, 2016 Jeff & Hillary James News

by Jeff James

Evance Chieng dreams of going to college. The honor of being the first in his family to do so is a bragging right few in his community can boast. His grandmother, Rujina Abusa, reminds him often how proud his parents would be (had they survived the HIV epidemic) of his success. Thinking of them, and his grandmother who has suffered the loss of 6 children to the same disease, encourages him to work harder. Her smile and determination inspire him to persevere.

This year is a critical year for Evance. He is in 8^th grade, and will graduate from Lalmba’s children’s program at the end of this year. Unless he qualifies for one of our coveted scholarships for secondary or trade school, his scholastic career ends soon. Fishing is his backup plan. It’s the practical path that most young men choose from this lakeside community.

Knowing the odds are slim and the competition steep, Evance seems unconcerned. He believes with all his heart that this time next year he will begin high school.

Sadly, less than 10% of the children in our program are able to continue with formal education beyond 8^th grade. Why is that? Well, mainly it’s the prohibitive cost for families living on less than a dollar a day. School fees are not even a consideration. Primary education costs about $40 per year, and secondary school is about $300 per year, way out of reach! Scholarships are few. Evance and 100 other 8^th graders will compete for Lalmba’s 30 coveted scholarships. 30 is not a magical number; it’s simply what we can afford, as we focus on primary education for almost 1000 younger students. We’d love to provide a scholarship to high school for each child who qualifies.

In fact, when I was there in January, our Children’s Director in Kenya introduced me to 8 students who qualified for a Lalmba scholarship, but because their test scores were marginally lower than their peers, Lalmba did not have scholarship budget for them. I felt for those 8 students. They are smart children, ambitious in their hopes, tireless in their work. It would be unjust to extinguish their dream so soon, I thought, tossing them to labor on the lake before they’ve had a real chance to break away and heal their families, families trapped in a cycle of perpetual poverty.

We have to make some very difficult decisions sometimes in this work; decisions that could have generational ramifications for a family. We’re a small organization with limited resources, and we take pride in our philosophy of doing the most good with little. But for these 8 kids, we made the decision to increase our fundraising by $2400 for the next 4 years and give them the opportunity to change the course of their lives. That’s a commitment I feel good about making.

High school in America is an opportunity we take for granted. It’s a birthright in our minds. But for these kids, a high school education is a rare opportunity. And if given the chance, not a lesson will be squandered, nor a class missed. These students know what’s at stake.

When we told them that they would, after all, receive a scholarship, a breathless silence filled the room, and then it lit up with unbridled joy! If the energy of happiness could be harnessed and sold to the highest bidder, that moment would have been worth a billion dollars, and our perpetual budget woes would be over. But happiness’s value is not monetary; it’s more meaningful than that. And although the moment was fleeting, a sense of hope now shines prominently in their minds. The family story can be altered; a happy ending is once again possible.

As we begin a new year setting new goals, we want to keep you, our generous supporters, informed.

In 2015 our operating budget was $552,000, and we raised about $565,000. It was the most financially healthy year for Lalmba since 2008. Because of that and because of your generosity last year, we were able to increase funding to our microloan program by $10,000, helping more needy families start small businesses to get on the path to independence. And, of course, with our addition of scholarships for these 8 deserving kids, our budget this year is $565,000, to the dollar of what we raised last year. How’s that for running a lean, sustainable program?

Please keep us in your prayers and help us when you’re able to fulfill our mission of providing hope through opportunity.

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Hope

Or, you can use PayPal to make a donation by clicking the below link:

Lalmba News, Vol. 53, No. 1

February 19, 2016 Jeff & Hillary James News

By Jeff James

When I saw the tears fall in great drops upon the table, creating craters of dust and dark marks on the stained wood, I knew I had asked the wrong question. I wanted to know if she remembered the day her father walked her from her home in the lowlands of southwestern Ethiopia to the highland rainforests of Chiri, and then left her there, alone. Forever.

She remembered, and her tears told the whole story. There were no further details necessary. Posy’s life, all 9 years of it, has been a tragic series of abandonment.

Posy was born to the nomadic, warrior tribe of the Menit people, pastoralists roaming the lower Omo river valley. Around the age of 5 or 6 Posy suffered her first epileptic seizure. As a result, her siblings were no longer allowed to play with her, and she was forced to sleep outside. Her parents were concerned that a curse may have been put upon their family.

The frequency of her seizures increased, and her parents determined there must be evil at work. I’ve heard horror stories of epileptics thrown into rivers to drown or be devoured by crocodiles, or tied to a tree and left to die. But Posy’s family had compassion for her and chose to leave her in a bustling town with a fistful of money (about $5), a hundred of miles from her home, and among people whose language she didn’t speak. She was 7 years old then, and by the grace of God, that town was Chiri.

Her money lasted but a few days and the nights were cold and scary. But one afternoon, while Posy was begging in the street, mercy showed her face. Posy met a woman who took pity on her and offered a job fetching water and cleaning. In exchange for service, Posy received one meal a day and a corner inside to sleep. But then another seizure gripped her, terrifying the woman.

The woman was convinced that what she witnessed was nothing short of evil, and evil was not welcome in her home. And so Posy returned to the streets to beg.

Eventually Posy met a nurse who understood epilepsy, and who offered her servant work in exchange for food, but not shelter. She could sleep in the yard or in the cow shed. But Posy’s seizures continued and one day, while cooking over an open fire, she convulsed and toppled right into it. She couldn’t extract herself until the tremors ended, and by then, her burns were severe. The nurse cleaned and dressed her wounds as best she could and sent her to rest under a shade tree. After a few days, however, her wounds became terribly infected and the smell of burned flesh irritated the nurse. It was an intolerable odor. And so, yet again, Posy was sent away with nothing but the shredded clothes that clung to her body, and a fever that shook her to the core.

She was found by a Lalmba employee, lying in a ditch, confused, and close to death. She was admitted into our hospital where her burns were treated, she was cleaned and given high doses of antibiotics. But the damage was bad, really bad, and surgery was needed to restore use of her arm. The infection needed advanced care that we couldn’t provide. We took her to the Missionaries of Charity in Addis Ababa, truly a place where saints flock to cure and comfort the sick and dying. It was her best hope of surviving, and after 4 months of surgery and recovery, she healed perfectly. She’s badly scarred, but she is strong and able-bodied. The sisters sent her back to Chiri, a town where she had no home, no family, and only one friend, Lalmba.

A home she found in Lalmba’s orphanage, and at the age of 9, she will begin the 1^st grade in just a couple of weeks. She has a bed inside a house with windows and doors and a roof that doesn’t leak, and on her bed she has Tweety Bird sheets. She wakes up to breakfast and a routine that values education and hard work, and accepts her for who she is. And yet, I know, when she closes her eyes at night, she imagines her next step, when all this goodness is over and the bed once again is the street. She can’t possibly believe the horrors are gone; life can’t be that good. But it is, by the grace of God, it is. Posy, through a tragic path, a perilous route, found safety and shelter in a home that will never expel her, one that will nourish her with love and acceptance. It’s too soon for her to believe it’s real; but I looked into her tear-filled eyes, and I held her scarred hand, and I promised her, this home, this family of orphans and castoffs, is just like her, and like them, she will never be sent away.

That is a promise I intend to keep.

Posy’s bed with Tweety Bird sheets.

Understanding Poverty

By Hillary James

The students in Dr. Colleen Fenno’s freshman writing class at Concordia University in Wisconsin haven’t thought much about world poverty before. Colleen, a Lalmba supporter, partners with Lalmba each semester to give her students a first-hand education in what it means to be one of the millions living in extreme poverty. Each semester Hillary skypes with the students to tell them about Lalmba’s work in Africa. Colleen then asks her students to perform one task in solidarity—either washing their clothes by hand for 2 days, carrying 10 pounds on their head for 1 mile, or eating only rice and beans for 48 hours—-then write about it. Below are some of the comments from her students after their experience:

“Although I already knew I was fortunate just to live in the United States, this walk further imprinted in my mind just how lucky I am. Unlike those in developing countries I wasn’t walking for my survival, but instead for a college class. I am not only fortunate enough not to have to walk to get my water, but I also am able to attend college. This is more than most people would even dream of in a developing country.”

“So, I picked out the clothes I wore from Friday and Saturday and brought it back up with me to wash by hand. As I walked back up to the bathroom on my floor I stopped in my room to grab dish soap. I scrubbed my clothes and rung out the soap. Afterwards, I walked back to my room and decided to hang my clothes by the window to dry. Later that night, I flipped them over so the other side could dry. It took me a while to wash what I wore from the past two days, and I got water all over myself. Doing this challenge helped me realize I should not take simple things, like washer and dryer machines, laundry detergent (Tide pods), and fabric softener, for granted.

Before completing this challenge, I complained about having to walk down two flights of stairs just to get to the laundry room.

Now I know that I am lucky that I am able and fortunate enough to walk those stairs and throw my clothes in a machine that will clean my clothes for me. Manually washing clothes and having to find a spot to place them to dry was not simple. “Living below the line” helped me realize so many things I take for granted, and I am glad that I was challenged with this experience.“

A New Partner in Health

One of the two roads to Agaro Bushi Primary Clinic.

By Hillary James

It is hard for us to fathom the hardship for the sick in Ethiopia to reach adequate medical care. Agaro Bushi, a tiny village 4 hours’ walk from Lalmba’s health center, is a place without electricity, water, or an adequate road to reach the outside world. A health clinic there was started by Ruth Brogini, the wife of the former Swiss ambassador to Ethiopia and the director of an organization called SAED (www.saedetiopia.org). Since its inception, the clinic has been a first stop for the sick. If the illness is significant, the patient must travel the 4 hours by mule to reach Lalmba’s Chiri Health Center. There are several river crossings, one with a single log acting as a bridge, and harrowing hills with steep slopes.

Ruth has been struggling to keep the clinic open, challenged by her inability to manage from Switzerland. Last year, Lalmba partnered with Ruth to provide the oversight for the clinic with weekly visits from Lalmba’s volunteers in Chiri, while SAED provides the funding, and a new ambulance for Lalmba’s use. When the road is too bad for a vehicle, we strap medicines and equipment onto mules’ backs to carry them to Agaro Bushi.

The last time I visited Agaro Bushi, a woman 34 weeks pregnant came to the clinic saying she had not felt her baby move for some days. Susan Botarelli, our expat public health director, realized the baby had died and the woman would require a transfer to a hospital. The woman’s husband arranged for a mule, and he and his brother walked alongside the patient up and down mud-slick roads, across precarious creek crossings, 4 hours until we reached Lalmba’s vehicle. The woman stoically lay down in the back of the Land Cruiser for the bumpy ride to Chiri, knowing all along that her almost full-term baby was most certainly dead. Her husband stroked her face, whispering reassurances as they spent the day trying to reach medical care. I will always remember her strength in the face of despair, and her stoicism in the arduous journey to reach our clinic. Without Lalmba’s involvement, Ruth had considered closing the clinic, given its remoteness and the difficulties in managing it. Lalmba’s expertise in managing rural African health clinics now has a new opportunity to provide good primary health care to a very needy population! We are so pleased to have a new partner in doing what we do best, being a source of health for those in the world who need it most.

Left to Right: Atinafu (Chiri Health Center Assistant Manager), Jeff, Romeo (Lalmba’s Ethiopia Project Director), Tafesse (CHC General Manager), and Ruth Brogini (Director of SAED) in front of the new ambulance.

Picture This:

Sights from our African Journeys

A clever taxi driver or moving company in Kenya.

Aster, the Chiri orphanage housemother, milks the cow.

Lalmba staff celebrate and sing a traditional song.

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Hope

Lalmba News, The Christmas Edition, Vol. 52, No.5

November 24, 2015 Jeff & Hillary James News

BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND

SALAD TONGS!

These hand-crafted beauties from Kenya with beaded handles, ergonomically designed, will add a touch of elegance to your holiday meals. They also make great gifts! Who wouldn’t want a pair of these to uniquely grace their kitchen table?

But, don’t be fooled, these are no ordinary pair of salad tongs.

Their versatility will amaze you!

Example A

Pluck away those pesky garden gnomes!

Example B

Your garden rake broke and leaves cover your lawn; don’t worry, the fork makes a great rake!

And when you’re done raking, grab the spoon and scoop away!

Seriously though, we have chosen a practical gift for you this Christmas, with a signature African flair. If we receive your order before December 19, it can serve your salad this Christmas.

Donate today to get your salad tongs by Christmas.

Tembea Na Mimi

Tembea Na Mimi (walk with me) in Africa was a happy occasion! There’s no greater satisfaction than putting our cause into action by walking. Why? Because from the moment we were born, whether in a poor village in Africa or in a life of endless opportunity, we all strived to take that first step to walk, to explore, and to become independent. The steps we take across continents are what bring us together. For those of you who participated, thank you! You helped us raise $17,000 by showing your support for our friends in Africa who walked with us on September 21, Lalmba’s 52^nd Anniversary. One study shows the average American walks about 5,117 steps a day. But check out these numbers!

Kenya

Ruth G walked 26,206 steps

Ruth W. walked 34,733 steps

Ray walked 24,008 steps

Caroline walked 35,658 steps

Stephen walked 23,854 steps

Ethiopia

Askale walked 27,749 steps

Worke walked 25,347 steps

Tadelech walked 33,395 steps

Girmo walked 34,691 steps

Shemsedin walked 30,693 steps

Fundraising

At first glance, the below graph could look problematic. But we are encouraged by your support this year and hope to achieve a balanced budget. As many of you know, our Christmas fundraiser is the most important one of the year, and we hope this year will be no different. Thank you in advance for your generosity and for helping us to meet our goals.

Walk To Matoso

Story and photos by Rob Andzik, Lalmba Board Chairman

If you have been following Lalmba over the last year, you have heard of Tembea Na Mimi (Walk With Me). A walk for a cause. 10 days, 163 miles, 11 walkers, 11 crew, 22 camels. What an amazing adventure!

Hopefully you have had a chance to read the blog postings on our website (www.lalmba.org). Jeff James has done a truly amazing job capturing the spirit of the walk, the strength of each walker, and the beauty we saw in both the wilderness we walked through and the people we met. However, one story has yet to be told. The final day of our journey — the walk to Matoso.

Our journey began 163 miles and 10 days away from Lalmba’s clinic – 10 days of blisters, amazing wildlife, rural communities, and beautiful people. But the reason we walked can be summed up in the last 6 kilometers, 6 kilometers I will remember vividly for the rest of my life.

We were all exhausted and in pain, but our steps were propelled with the knowledge that we had reached the end of our journey. As we walked into Otho, the closest town to Matoso, we led the first camels to ever visit this area, and were met by Kawa, Lalmba’s public health manager. Driving Lalmba’s truck, he boldly announced to the entire village through a megaphone why we were there. He asked everyone to join us in our final steps, to walk with us in support of the poor, the people Lalmba serves.

I think more than anything that is why I feel so much passion for the work Lalmba does. Lalmba empowers people and it is truly a place of hope. Lalmba and the people we serve are one and the same.

As we walked those last 6 kilometers, we were met by our Kenyan staff: nurses, clinicians, administrators, and local volunteers. Our entire walk came down to this one moment. We rounded a bend in the road and there they were. We were walking for them and they were walking with us. We marched, we sang, we cried tears of joy. As we approached the clinic, our band of walkers grew by the hundreds. Children raced around us. People we have never met, many destitute with barely a shirt on their back, took our arms and guided us home. They welcomed us as family.

We had finished our walk and our pains were forgotten as we unloaded the camels one last time, took off our shoes, and dove into Lake Victoria. With hundreds of people lining the shores, and the laughter of children swimming with us, we washed off 10 days of dirt, emerged from the water, and saw the reason we walked. In the faces of the people around us we saw wonder, curiosity, and most of all hope. Hope for their community, hope for their children. It is for the children most of all that we walked. Their smiling faces made every step worth it. In this simple village half a world away, Lalmba’s supporters are making a real difference in the lives of a very poor and wonderful people. The people of Matoso asked me to bring back a message to you: A very heartfelt and sincere Thank You!

From the Field

by Hillary James

: Atinafu stands proudly in front of his mud and straw house.

I want to tell you about Lalmba’s power to change lives, all rolled into one person. Atinafu Gebre Yohanis was born in a small village a full day’s walk from Chiri, Ethiopia, where Lalmba runs a project. Atinafu’s father died when he was a baby, and his mother died when he was 4. When I ask him if he remembers his mother, he tells me, “I remember her smile.”

Living with an uncle, Atinafu realized at the age of 6 that he too had developed the tuberculosis that had killed his parents. There was no treatment anywhere near his village. His uncle had heard about this place called Lalmba where they could cure TB, and suggested Atinafu walk there. Little Atinafu, at 6, was deathly afraid of the forest through which he had to pass to reach Chiri. But he steeled himself, picking market day to walk through the forest when more villagers would be on the road. He told stories to himself along the way to keep himself from being too afraid.

When he arrived in Chiri, alone and clearly suffering from TB, the children’s director asked him where he could stay during treatment. A distant uncle agreed to take Atinafu in for the extent of his treatment course, as long as Lalmba would buy his food. Lalmba enrolled him in a meal program and gave him the treatment that would save his life.

After he returned to good health, he stayed on with his uncle, but school was not a possibility. They were too poor. Faced with the prospect of a lifetime of farming, again Atinafu contacted Lalmba, and he was enrolled in our children’s program, which paid for his school fees, books and uniforms.

Atinafu was a very clever student, scoring always in the top of his class. After graduating, he received a Lalmba scholarship to attend vocational training as a plumber. He was then employed by Lalmba on the grounds crew, and later worked in the children’s program as a mentor for the orphans. Recognizing his dedication, his love for Lalmba, and his leadership potential, he was promoted to Assistant General Manager in Ethiopia. He is now enrolled in a university degree program in a nearby city studying business management.

Atinafu saved his money, purchased a plot of land and built a simple mud and grass home. But one day, he knows, a cement house will take its place. A few months ago while he was out of town, a thief broke into his room and stole all of his clothing, requiring him to empty his savings to buy new clothes, and delaying his plans for a solid home. Despite this setback, he continues to smile.

When I came to visit with my family, Atinafu gifted each of us with decorative scarves. How he laughed when he saw my daughter Chiri twirling in circles with her new scarf! Why is it that those of us with the least in this world are often the greatest models of selfless generosity?

In this area where people spend hours walking where they need to go, it is common to strike up conversation with those walking around you. Recently when I walked with Atinafu to a distant village, someone on the road asked him, “Where is your family from?” His answer: “My family is Lalmba.”

What would Atinafu’s story have been if Lalmba didn’t exist? If he had not died of TB as a child, he certainly would not have gone to school and become the young community leader that he is today. If you ever wonder if your support of Lalmba really makes any difference to actual people in rural Africa, we hope Atinafu’s story reminds you of the great power of this work.

Inspiration and Leadership, Part 10 of Tembea Na Mimi

October 11, 2015 Jeff & Hillary James Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 10 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

By The Walkers of Tembea Na Mimi

True inspiration comes from remarkable and unexpected places. It compels us to move, sometimes with a ferocious shout and other times with a soft embrace. True inspiration impacts the soul and excites the heart. For me it came from the brilliant red fire of a morning sunrise. It came through messages of support sent halfway around the world. And it even came from a tiny ladybug that comforted me at a time I thought I couldn’t take another step. Without inspiration, none of us would have completed this walk.

It is difficult to describe what this journey meant to each of us. Each of us experienced joy, sadness, adversity, friendship, fear, compassion, pain, beauty, and most of all love. We experienced all of this in our own ways. We each had or own journey and challenges to overcome. We all had to deal with our inner self, our past, our present, our future.

All of that and more was our constant companion. It drove us to take our next step and defeated us in the step after that. Sometimes we could look to the sides and witness the amazing beauty of where we were, and other times all we could do was look at the ground right before our feet. The miles passed by in a slow motion blur. Its just over the next hill. That was our mantra. I was never sure what hill we were talking about.

While we all shared the same journey and we followed the same paths, one of us carried more weight on his shoulders. The weight of responsibility is an incredible burden. It is a weight that in truth cannot be shared, only temporarily relieved. Some carry it well, others struggle mightily. Jeff James is one who carries it like a feather. He never showed signs of being discouraged. He never put himself first. Even after the walk, with all of his blog postings, he only talks of the strengths of others. As if we were the strength of the group. No, that strength came from our leader. The walk was his vision. The planning was his doing. He was our inspiration.

Jeff simply said Tembea Na Mimi. And we did.

And I for one am very thankful he asked.

— Rob Andzik

Jeff James at sunrise. Photo by Terry Robinette.

In one of his blog posts, Jeff described the ability of our Maasai guide, James, to see animals at a far distance and our hope to develop this Maasai Eye. Jeff James, an exceptional man has an even more exceptional eye. He has the ability to see into the hearts and souls of all he meets.

On day 7, I was feeling just a bit off. I wasn’t sure what was wrong, maybe I was just tired, cranky or just feeling sorry for myself, or all three. As I was having this inner discussion, Jeff walked over and asked if I was ok. Caught off guard, I immediately answered yes, I’m fine, but wondered how did he know that I was not quite right. He knew I wasn’t myself that morning because of his “eye”, that ability to see people not just on the outside, but their inner being.

As we finished our walk and reached our goal of Matoso, I watched Jeff with admiration, as he saw into the hearts and souls of all we met, but mostly the poor, the sick, and the children. Yes, James was amazing in spotting those animals in the distance, but Jeff does what Christ calls all of us to do – to really see the poor, the orphans, the widows and the sick.

Thank you Jeff James for being the man you are. I feel blessed to know you.

— Terry Robinette

Jeff James on the first morning of the walk.

Thank you to Jeff:It is hard to believe the trip to Kenya has come and gone. I remember the night I first learned of the trip, going to the mailbox and seeing the latest newsletter from Lalmba. As soon as I read the article about Tembea Na Mimi, I knew I wanted to take the trip and see what the organization I had been contributing to was all about. I submitted my application to be a walker. The trip didn’t seem real; it was so far in the future. I soon returned to my daily life, not thinking about the trip until the next email came wanting a commitment that I was “in” for the trip. I sent my commitment. I was “in”, yet the trip still didn’t seem real. That is how it went over the next several months with each new email — here are the dates, make your travel arrangements, here are the supplies you will need, don’t forget the malaria medication. I took each step moving closer to the trip, but it still didn’t seem real.

During this time, I could begin to see Jeff’s personality take shape. I sensed Jeff’s excitement about the trip and his love for the people of Africa. I could see his sense of humor, including giving everyone a nickname. Mine was Joe “the Cape Buffalo” Synk. Really, I couldn’t be a lion or something? I could sense his humor in the quote he chose by Winston Churchill to inspire the trip “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” I saw his humor again after reading another one of his emails, as I reassured my daughter that we wouldn’t be listening to carnivorous sounds at night.

Finally departure day arrived and I was at the airport saying goodbye to my family. A little over 24 hours later I was in Kenya leaving the airport to finally meet Jeff. I am still not sure how he knew it was me, since he had never seen a picture of me. Maybe he was just asking every guy if he were named Joe or maybe I just looked that lost and out of place. Either way, the greeting was warm, like we were old friends seeing each other after a long absence.

The next two weeks were amazing! It was fun getting to meet and learn about the other 10 walkers that had signed up for the trip. We experienced the people of Kenya and learned more about their culture. Seeing the Lalmba clinic and orphanage and meeting the staff was inspiring. Phenomenal, the only word to describe viewing animals you pay to see in a zoo in their natural environment. I also found out Jeff wasn’t kidding when he talked about listening to the carnivorous sounds at night.

Over those two weeks I had time to talk with and get to know Jeff. He is a proud husband and father, a strong leader, is able to persevere through mental and physical adversity and is not a bad singer. My initial impressions of Jeff through his emails were correct. He has a huge love for the people in Africa and wants to help empower them to have a better life. He also has a great sense of humor.

I do feel I made an impression on him as well. It was the third or fourth day, when we came upon a group of Cape Buffalo during our walk. We stood in silence, our group staring at their group, trying to decide who was more intimidating and should have the right of way in the Masai Mara. It was at this point that Jeff showed some of the traits he had picked up from me, as he “quietly and firmly led” us in a retreat, from behind, after forgetting to tell the rest of us.

As I sit here and reflect on the journey, having plenty of time for reflection since losing my job due to my blown CIA cover story, I want to thank you Jeff. First, for initiating such a wonderful and life changing trip. You billed it as a trip of a lifetime in your first email, and it lived up to that billing in every single way. Thanks for all of your hard work and preparation to make the trip a success and keeping us safe throughout our journey. Secondly, I want to say thank you to you and your family for the hard work and sacrifices you have made to dedicate your life to the Lalmba Association. From my time getting to know you on this trip, I feel that Hugh made the right choice and left Lalmba to a great leader and very intelligent man who will help to continue the good work the association has done. I look forward to seeing what other ideas you come up with to help get people like me involved and do more than just write a check. Good luck to you and Lalmba and hopefully another 50 years of helping people in Africa.

— Joe Synk

Jeff James enjoying the evening fire near Migori.

Apropos Jeff James.

Jeff,

I have to go back to my last line in your Limerick in the ode that I appropriated from Handel’s Messiah .

WONDERFUL because you are –

W = warm

O = on time

N = natural

D = determined

E = engaged

R = rare

F = funny

U = uplifting

L = loving.

COUNSELOR because you were. You provided wise and gentle counsel to everyone at some point in their very personal and public journeys.

EVERLASTING FATHER- once a dad always a dad. You played with and tended to the child in yourself and the rest of us as well as never forgetting those we were walking for. And as for the…

PRINCE OF PEACE, what can I say? Your patience and quiet but resolute focus kept us putting 1 foot in front of the other with heart, head and soul.

Asante Sana Mwalimu with love, gratitude and the greatest respect.

— Thea Nation

One of the joys of our trip was getting to know you and to become aware of your many talents: a wonderful leadership ability; quiet confidence; calm under pressure; able to adjust to changing circumstance constantly; bringing a disparate group of strangers together in pursuit of our common goal; setting a tone of respect and support for all involved in this unforgettable adventure.

And now, Jane and I marvel at your writing ability. You have “nailed” Thea, Michael, Joe and Helena, and if past be prelude, will do the same for each of your fellow walkers.

Thank you,

— Pete Obernesser

Jeff James kicks off the morning walk by reading a profile of one of the many people Lalmba serves.

The image of the shepherd comes to mind when I see Jeff in many of the pictures. He is walking sometimes with a stick, sometimes alone in his “zone”, but, mostly walking with others sharing his excitement of our adventure together. That image has stuck with me through all the days of the trip. Like the good shepherd, he was always checking on us, seeing if we were ok, encouraging those of us “blister” weary and tired.I was always amazed how many things needed his attention: schedules, trips to the airport, arrangements for cars and vans to take us places, places to stay and places to eat, medicines and supplies he had for us, camels and drovers, communications with John and Amanda, the list goes on and on. All of that work done with a servant’s heart, joyful and giving. What I loved seeing most was the joy he had watching all of us experience the purpose of this trip: to see the work up close and personal, the work of Lalmba. He has a poet’s heart as is evident in the blogs that we have all been blessed to read.

As we rode up the escalator in Denver, I could see Hilary and his kids waiting at the top. He turned to me with the biggest smile on his face, “those are my kids!” The world is lucky to have such a man in our midst. The shepherd is home.

— Jane Obernesser

The warm rising sun slowly peeks out over the grassy African terrain, bathing the crisp, cool morning in a shower of gold. With a documented distance behind us, and an uncertain journey ahead, it is the start of another beautiful, yet trying day. Our group of walker scattered out among our guides begins to navigate the land, trying to ease into the rhythm of walking that had dominated our waking hours for long enough for it to feel routine.

We head west, starting on the flat land with grass that towers up to the waist, and working our way towards the hills in the distance. We are alone, carving out our own path from nothing like the tracks on the moon. I look back, and somewhat silhouetted by the sun, I recognize the figure of Jeff James striding foot after foot, pace after pace, cool and confident, leading by doing. He looks relaxed as he follows his shadow into the unknown. But I know that that is not the case. Blisters cover his heel, his arch, the ball of his foot and all of his toes. Each step a battle, in itself. A war against himself.

He catches my eye. I smile and ask him how he’s feeling as I angle my trajectory towards him.

“Hurts like hell, but its fine!” he replies with a jolly smile. This is one of the many wonderful things that makes Jeff the amazing, unique person whom he is. His “every day’s a good day” attitude and ability to tell his body to “shut up and listen, this is what we’re doing” made him a huge role model, not only for me, but -I think all would agree- for us all. His leader ship and impeccable commitment to his organization and its cause has lead him to many adventures on the African continent.

After our trip together there are few I would rather travel with and ever fewer whom I have more respect for. I can only be grateful for the three weeks where he was a father figure and the opportunity to make a life long friend. I can only hope that maybe, just possibly, there will be another adventure in store for us.

Gideon, Chiri and Jasper, you have an amazing dad! Thanks for sharing! And thank you Jeff for an experience that will always drive me from now on, and one that I will always treasure deeply and miss with all my heart.

— Yogesh Aradhey

Jeff James walking through the savanna

Jeff,

In one of your posts about a TnM walker you mentioned how difficult it often was to look up from where we were placing our tired feet—in order to appreciate where we were and what we were seeing. I had the same experience. But after several days I realized that looking up—and then breaking my ankle—was a bad tradeoff. Appreciation is not a cerebral exercise; it is a ‘whatever-is-possible-at-that-moment’ impulse which is accomplished by the heart rather than the head. Whenever we can, we should just look up and feel grateful for what we’ve been given.

So let me “just look up” to you, Mr. James. You had the imagination and the courage to float this idea in the first place; you worked hundreds of hours to make it a reality for Lalmba and for each of the walkers; you gave up time with your family; you personally welcomed everyone at the airport; you ‘herded’ 10 ‘cats’ into a formidable group of trekkers; you were patient and kind but firm; you made wise decisions when tired; you never complained about your own dreadful blisters; you demonstrated a photographer’s eye for the feelings and tones between people; you loved your brother; you always had in mind the goal of our walk.

The successes of Tembea na Mimi were always “ours,” but the responsibilities were only “yours”. In short, ‘Wonderful, Counsellor, Father, Prince,’ you carried your pack.

I look up to you, and I’m grateful.

— Michael Nation

The white king of Kenya.

I’ve known this man my whole life, but after plodding dusty roads, rocky trails, and grassy plains along side him, I know him better and respect him more than I thought possible. He carried a larger burden and suffered more gruesome wounds than all of us. He showed us a world that is difficult to capture in words and best seen through his lens. When part of the group wanted to press forward and another part wanted to pull back, he held us all together.

I will value this shared journey together always. Our tents were close enough that I could hear him rise and start packing his gear in the wee dark hours while the rest of us slept and wished away the start of the day. We shared quiet moments with cups of instant coffee in the dark busy mornings as the camels were loaded. We both seemed to wander all along the camel train separately from front to back, but when we weren’t paying attention, somehow gravitated to each other and silently walked side by side for miles feeling a comfort and assurance I have known all my life.

Approaching the second anniversary of Jeff and Hillary’s leadership of Lalmba, it is difficult to imagine anyone more suited for this position. He is compassionate to those in need and he is direct with those under his supervision. The Kenyans from Nairobi to Matoso love him and respect him, as do we who walk with him. Those that care about Lalmba’s mission can be confident in Lalmba’s future.

— David James

Thank you Jeff James for being our Inspiration!

Scars and Memories, Part 9 of Tembea Na Mimi

October 2, 2015 Jeff & Hillary James Uncategorized

This is Part 9 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

At 15, Yogesh’s path to self-determination is just beginning, and already he’s proven himself fearless among warriors and wise among elders. On the last day of walking he was barefoot, an indication of his devotion to every contour and edge the ground contained. It was now sacred ground, his journey across it was complete, and his wisdom was won. Why not risk a little injury and pain in the final steps? The impact seemed only to make him stronger, as all good adventures do, allowing him to harness the power of danger and exertion and transform it into strength and character. This was a rite of passage, a hero’s journey, a deliberate plunge into the unknown, and he had arrived on the other side unscathed, a man among men.

Joseph Campbell describes the “Hero’s Journey” as being a cyclical path to higher consciousness. It’s a cycle that begins with a call to adventure and culminates in the metaphorical death and rebirth of the self. And with that rebirth comes a responsibility to lead and share the wisdom learned from your ordeal. In the Maasai culture for a boy to become a man he must live apart from his community for 4 months and then kill a lion with only a knife and spear. The risk of failure is great, but risk is a fundamental element of the equation. Without it, there is no ordeal, there is no transformation of self, no passage to manhood, and no wisdom to impart.

On adventures like these, much of the take-away wisdom rises from winning an internal battle. You fight against fatigue and the weedy-brain thinking that nags you to stop walking, tells you that you’re hot, that your feet hurt, you’re hungry, your legs are chafing, and your pack is uncomfortable. Winning those battles is a mental game, as you project thoughts into the near future and imagine the balm of completion. Or it’s a game of the heart, the internal strength found through compassion, keenly observing the dire needs of the peasants whom you pass, reflecting on problems, solutions and feeling grateful, perhaps guilty for your status in life. The wisdom gleaned from those internal victories of heart and mind is our goal, because even the oldest among us desires new wisdom and the time to share it.

Yogesh led the group whenever he wanted, proving that his endurance matched or exceeded the best efforts of his elders. As he walked with real warriors, not just westerners with soldier hearts, but real warriors – men from cultures where they are trained to defend land, livestock and community from their very first steps, and to fight and die with honor – he pondered this world, a world where he could study robotics in Virginia while his age-mates fought lions in Kenya to become men.

And so, from day one he studied them, our guides, Turkana and Samburu tribesman. He determined that the grace and efficiency of their walk allowed them to walk faster and further. He practiced and modeled his walk after theirs, conserving energy with a fluid stride. He marveled at James, our Maasai guide, who with keen vision and a textbook knowledge of wildlife, could identify elephants and lions hidden in the vast and tangled landscapes. Yogesh practiced seeing, scanning the land, striving to spot an animal before James, with occasional success. When there was no risk of rain, he escaped the confines of his tent and slept under the open sky like our guides, star-gazing while drifting off to sleep. Instead of wearing trousers, our guides wore “kikoys”, colorfully patterned cloth wrapped around the waist like a skirt, hanging down to the knees, allowing for freedom of movement and a bit of ventilation. Yogesh had a towel that was large enough to function as a proper kikoy. At camp in the evenings, he wore it proudly, testing for truth and finding it.

With a group such as ours, a cadre of westerners on safari in the African bush, the heart of the group is the guides. Yogesh was one of the first who made the leap from being mere walker to beating with this heart. Without our guides we would not have reached our destination; we could very well have died. Our guides are the ones who slept in shifts and chased lions from camp with a bullwhip while we dreamed of hamburgers. They are the ones who wrestled sick camels to the ground to inject them with antibiotics while we nursed our blistered toes. They are the ones who loaded our gear on bad-tempered camels while we stretched sore muscles and worried about dirty water. They are the ones who sang to the camels to soothe their tired and petulant souls, coaxing them forward with love, while we ambled without responsibility. They are the ones who outmaneuvered thieves who sought to pilfer our goods, moving us into a defensive position under the cover of darkness, while we grumbled at the nuisance of moving our tents. And they are the ones who prepared our meals and gathered our water while we sipped Tusker’s and Reds, canned nectar of the Wazungu tribe. Yogesh resided right in this central core, helping as much as he could, hoping their strength and wisdom would rub off on him, which it did in abundance.

In his time with the guides, he learned to work the camels, lead them, load and unload their packs. He learned Swahili words and phrases, and what life was like as a young man in Kenya. One night, after all other walkers had gone to bed, one of our guides taught Yogesh to sew, and helped him mend his broken shoes. While immersed in needlework and while the rest of us slept, Yogesh learned how to laugh in Turkana.

The guides affectionately called him “Yogurt,” which he didn’t mind because he knew it was spoken with fondness. After all, he had entered their inner circle and had found brothers. When Helena called him “Yogurt”, however, he prickled, sensing something different, like a sister teasing a brother. Nicknames seem to either mock or express endearment, and there was nothing mock-worthy of Yogesh, but he sure was fun to tease.

David once referred to him as the “man-cub”, and I laughed and immediately thought about Mowgli, from Kipling’s The Jungle Book. With the best of intentions and the fondest associations, I turned to Yogesh and screamed, “Mowgli, you’re Mowgli!’ And then I paused and considered the soft bigotry of my remark and in a rush of guilt, I apologized. But the connection is much more profound than the fact that both Yogesh and Mowgli hail from India. The bigger revelation for me was the parallels in their characters: Mowgli, the man-cub, the boy raised by wolves, who would rather face a tiger in battle than be spoiled by the comforts of mankind. Fearless in the face of danger, seeing freedom in the wild, he wanted to fight with bears, dance with monkeys, howl like a wolf, and climb trees like a panther. He was too smart to be fooled into the coils of Kaa, the hypnotic python. I saw that same fearlessness, that same energy and preference for the wild in Yogesh. In the end, Mowgli was seduced and tamed by the promise of love . . . the best exit plan for all heroes, I suppose, and the reason we were on this adventure together.

For the Maasai, their time in the wild as young men ends with the rite of circumcision. The pain and the drama of the ordeal are not to be forgotten, and the passage to manhood is memorialized because of it. Other cultures practice different rites of passage, sometimes facial or belly scarring, or ritual teeth shaping in other tribes, but all mark the passing of childhood, and all intend for the memory of that moment to be significant, marked by pain and scarring, a lifetime reminder of the wisdom gained and the mission to spread it forward.

We joked with Yogesh, promising a creative scar to send him home. I remember as a child treasuring my scars and showing them off to my friends. There are dramatic stories of heroism associated with each scar. I try to keep that philosophy alive with my children today, celebrating little scars, and trying to find lessons from an experience. They must think I’m crazy when I throw my fist in the air and scream, “Yes! Nice scar,” followed by a high-five. In our society the outward scar has lost its value as a badge of courage, a visual reminder to help usher young people to maturity. We now hide our scars behind cosmetic surgery instead of wearing them with pride.

On his final day, when Yogesh walked barefoot, perhaps he was hoping for a wound to leave a scar, a souvenir to take home. A beaded bracelet just doesn’t quite suffice. To his mother’s delight, he didn’t succeed and returned home unblemished. Nonetheless he arrived in Virginia forever changed, I’m sure, for significant events transpired and important memories were created.

Perhaps in the absence of physical scars, the rites of passage in modern society are the significant memories we create when life veers into adventure, and away from the soft memories of everyday life. In the routine of everyday life it’s easy to forget what really matters and we tend to over-value the mundane, wisdom becoming the synopsis of a reality TV show, instead of a lesson in what it means to be human. Momentous memories are born in the battle of survival and from the triumphant feeling of success. These memories are mile markers of our moments when we left one self behind and sent a wiser one forward – a fresh soul whose life will forever follow a different trajectory.

That’s why it’s vital for us to answer when adventure calls, and embrace risk with open arms. Because there in the cusp of survival you will find truth and wisdom beyond measure.

: Seen through the foggy wind shield of a visiting Jeep, Yogesh zips his pack in preparation for walking.

: Around the campfire.

: Yogesh eating trail food is a road-side attraction.

: Many women, young and old, asked for Yogesh. They literally wanted us to leave him behind for them to adopt or marry.

: Filling water bottles at break.

Photo by Rob Andzik

Yogesh’s mended shoe. Photo by Rob Andzik

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

September 24, 2015 Jeff & Hillary James Uncategorized

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.

: A parked “piki-piki” makes for a good seat.

: David and James lead us through savanna land in the north Mara conservancy.

: At rest along the road, Amanda, David, and Robbie.

: Around camp on the Migori airstrip.

: David greets the day and villagers with a friendly wave as we embark on our final day of walking.

: Peter and David at rest in the Mara.

: David shares videos and photos with schoolchildren who ran to meet us along the road.

: Scouting lions in the Mara.






: Brothers, Kisumu Airport

“I Love Hills” Part 7 of Tembea Na Mimi

September 17, 2015 Jeff & Hillary James Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 7 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

“I love hills!” Terry exhaled as she charged past me. I wheezed an affirmative in reply, which was all I could do. Gravity was pulling me backwards, while some insane devotion to hills was driving Terry forward. It seemed to be her mantra; she invoked it to whomever she stormed past this hilly day.

“I love hills.”

As I write these words, I find myself growling them as I try to understand their source. Not because Terry’s voice was guttural, but because they came from a primal place. Spoken with ferocity, they were an affirmation to the self — to herself, as she climbed out of the Rift Valley, bounding upward with ease. Her walk was strong and steady, as if tethered to an umbilical cord pulley towing her to the top.

So what does it mean to love hills? In our language we have so many sayings that teach us that hills are not to be loved. If you’re old and incapable, you’re over the hill. If you’re sick or struggling in life, it’s an uphill battle. Hills are obstacles that slow us down. They interfere with our need for speed and efficiency. We level them or carve tunnels through them when building roads and sidewalks. They are to be appreciated from a distance, as a vista of rolling hills at sunset incites calm and increases property values.

But Terry loved walking up hills! What was that about? Was her love really just a desire to conquer the hill? Was a hill Terry’s Goliath, the larger foe with the less worthy cause? All adventurers and endurance athletes need to possess an inner warrior to call upon when things get tough. If conquering a hill is an affirmation of your fortitude and prowess, it is to be revered. But is it love? To conquer and to love are not the same. And perhaps that confusion is the source of many strained relationships.

An alternate representation must exist for Terry. If one strides against common wisdom and loves what most despise, the source of that devotion must be sacred.

The night before my son was born, I was lying next to my wife, her belly a perfectly curved hill. The contractions transformed the smooth, taut bow into angular peaks jutting upward, tectonic plates of elbows and knees beneath the skin. When the contractions subsided, her belly returned to normal and relaxed into a rounded summit, a sacred life about to arrive, a life to whom I was already devoted.

A hill, a symbol of emerging life, and a promise of play and laughter on the other side.

You want to know how to make Terry cry? Just ask her about her children, ask her about the kids she met and embraced along the way, and ask her about the orphans in Matoso. Ask her to describe what makes them beautiful and special, and she will lovingly tell you, with her voice cracking and tears pooling in her eyes, about the sound of their laughter, the wideness of their smiles, and their enthusiasm for life in spite of having few opportunities.

Or perhaps Terry knows, like the indigenous people of many hillside cultures, that to be closer to God one must climb to the mountain top. The summit, literally nearer to heaven, just a stone’s throw away from the celestial gates. The mantra then, “I-love-hills,” is a prayer to help her reach the top, syllables to count steps by and regulate breath, utterances of love to remind her of her sacred journey . . . up.

The day we reached Matoso, our goal, Terry walked towards Lake Victoria with a celebratory plunge in mind. There among the throngs of heads, bare to the sun, she met a young woman named Hillary, who spoke flawless English. She is one of the lucky few to receive a Lalmba scholarship for secondary school, and will most likely go to college. Terry describes her like she would a mountain vista – lovely, expansive, and graceful. Against all the odds, Hillary is successfully climbing life’s hills. Her hard work reveals opportunity where there once was none.

Thinking of Terry’s mantra, I wondered if Hillary had one too, or if prayer was a factor in her success. I wondered if there were any good hills nearby that she climbed to cast a better-aimed prayer, because something miraculous is working in her favor.

When we were kids we played a game called “king of the hill,” a test of strength and strategy, the victor winning the glory of being on top. Many battles were fought on the slopes: falling down, sliding backward, getting up and charging the hill again like a warrior, until the best among us was standing on top, looking out over the heads of his weaker or less fortunate opponents. No doubt Hillary too has lived a life of valor; life’s slopes in her community are very steep.

Terry’s love for hills, whatever the source may be, mirrors Hillary’s recipe for success, I think. Perhaps the key ingredients to a life fulfilled are the recognition that there is no substitute for hard work, life is sacred, and prayer works. Hills are to be loved, the figurative and the factual, but the top is over-rated. Most lives are spent on the slopes anyway, so a healthy amount of love for climbing is prudent.

I love Hills!

My wife’s name is also Hillary; we sometimes call her Hill. Her uncle is a runner, and he hates running up hills. He told me once that when he comes upon a hill, he thinks of his niece, and he screams “I love you, Hill!” while charging upward. The burst of energy he gets by replacing what he psychologically hates with what he emotionally loves, allows him to surge through the hard parts. Now that’s something to think about.

Terry and James, photo by Terry Robinette

: Terry at the Flora Hostel. Photograph by Yogesh Aradhey

: After walking all day, Terry still has the energy to walk on Fred’s back.

: Terry and Michael spend a stretch together. Terry was energized by walking and talking with people.

: Terry has a quiet moment enjoying the sunset at camp.

: There must be wild animals in the distance. Terry and Rob are taking aim, while James enjoys a stretch in the tall grass.

: Terry Robinette, walker extraordinaire. Photograph by Rob Andzik

The Relativity of Age, Part 6 of Tembea Na Mimi

September 10, 2015 Jeff & Hillary James Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 6 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

Our Elders, battle-scarred guardians, are the orators of history and culture. They are the wise leaders of our communities teaching us that age is relative, life’s pains multiply but become less noteworthy, and loss is understood best over time. A toddler’s traumatic loss of a soaring balloon pales to the loss of a pet, and that to the loss of a parent. The pain of a skinned knee can be walked off, but a new knee, like learning to walk for the first time, requires humility in place of grace. And from humility develops wisdom, and from wisdom Elders are born.

On day 3, as Peter sank into a narrow patch of shade, like an aching heap of fatigue, he grumbled, “This is the first time in my life that I have felt over 70.” They were not words of defeat; even at 77, Peter knows not the concept of surrender. He is a former U.S. Marine, baptized in fortitude, “Ooh Rah” until the end. His final cries will be the battle cries of a distinguished warrior, not some sissy complaining about sore feet. In fact, Peter can’t even feel his feet. With peripheral neuropathy below the knees, he only feels numbness or pain. But he doesn’t limp or gripe, he simply walks with a hammering purpose, his steps outpacing the camels and crew.

When he commented on his age, he was just being pragmatic. His statement was an expression of humility, a recognition that after all, perhaps being 77 does make this a little harder. Under the dappled light of that thorn tree, witnessing Peter feel his age, I wondered if pushing yourself to these physical extremes was healthy? Is it good to be forced to contemplate your own mortality under the duress of an adventure? Had Peter not come on this trip, he might be sunning himself leisurely on the coast of North Carolina, feeling youthful and energized, rather than feeling old and drinking dirty water. I worried.

But Peter’s psychic plummet was short-lived; 2 days later he had a transformation. He had passed through the learning-to-walk phase, and had mastered his stride and breath. Age became relative once again, when on day 5, Peter boomed, “I feel like I’m 47!” He walked like it too. He was a fast walker, out in front leading with James, learning Kenyan history, each step spinning years off his life. He was Benjamin Button on safari.

What could cause someone to feel old one day and spry and youthful the next? How is it that expending energy rejuvenates energy? And how is it that Peter, at 77, could overcome physical and mental fatigue, and then rebound as a new man? There was no recovery time. We were in the middle of nowhere.

I surmise age is relative, relative to many things, but here it seemed connected to the heart, to that intangible side of our consciousness where the soul resides. When you’re walking down a dirt path and everyone but you is cloaked in the traditional vestments of poverty, you take notice and contemplate the forces at work that created such disparities. And then you walk harder, hoping that you can make a difference, with stronger strides, and hopeful prayers. And perhaps, through the pathways of an open and engaged heart, it is possible to access a different kind of energy. Perhaps it’s possible to time-travel to an age when you felt your strongest. For Peter that must have been at 47.

Mama Jane, as Bara Bara liked to sing, “Mama Jane, Mama Thea … Mama Jane, Mama Thea …,” a spry 76 year-old, was naturally nervous about this “adventure” her husband coerced her to do. Before going to Kenya she had several bouts of doubt, second-guessing whether she could do this walk or not. After a couple of 13-mile training hikes back in Colorado, Jane would exhaustedly throw herself down at home and declare, “Forget it, I’m not going!” But with time, a rejuvenating meal, and Peter’s assurances that she could do this, she would waiver and wonder, Could I have done more? If I can walk 13 miles, I can certainly walk 2 more, she determined. And so Jane went to Kenya, to test her strength, and to walk with Peter. After all, Peter and Jane Obernesser have been walking together for nearly 53 years as husband and wife.

Nature is often conjured as an older woman, wise and gleaming with encouragement, nurturing us with gentle affirmations and milk and cookies. Other times she’s depicted with ferocity, thrashing us for our selfish ways.

Upon first meeting Jane, one might be inclined to label her as the archetypal grandmother, soft, sweet and buttery. And no doubt that side of Jane is real and dominates, but the time and stress from walking revealed a tougher character in Jane, someone strong, who is capable of walking 20+ miles in a day with the visceral force of Mother Nature.

Once at a mid-day break, parched by intense heat and dust, Peter suggested to me that Jane should ride the camel after the break. He was concerned about her, and thought she was tired. So I went to Jane and pitched the idea, to which she politely said no, that she would prefer to walk. When I persisted, and mentioned that Peter suggested that she might want to ride, I thought her husband’s concern for her well-being would make a difference. “He said that?” she blustered. “He can ride if he wants, but I’m walking,” she declared. And off she went, kicking up dust, walking into the noonday sun.

On the last day in Matoso, the guardians of the orphans, hunched grandmas weary from a lifetime of labor and loss, came to collect their weekly allotment of maize. They lined up before us, as if presented for our inspection. Jenipher Otieno, Lalmba’s Children’s Director, explained to us their plight and why we provide aid. They are the guardians of multiple grandchildren whose parents, their children, died of AIDS. A middle generation nearly wiped out, and the survivors, old women and small children, remain with little capacity to provide their basic needs.

This line of ladies was a face-to-face with reality, a boardroom meeting of the stakeholders and the investors, an opportunity for us to witness the gravitas of the need, giving perspective to our meager contributions. We walked to understand this. They are the “mimi” of “Tembea Na Mimi”, our ambulatory cause. When our backs, legs, hips, knees, and feet hurt, we considered what a lifetime of walking would feel like.

Jane’s focus had not been greater than at this moment. These were her age mates, women of her generation, struggling not only to survive but to keep their grandchildren alive and preserve their family and culture’s future. As a grandmother too, Jane’s bonds with them grew. She saw the unfair burdens that these women must hoist and wanted to share the weight.

After our introductions, burlap and nylon sacks were filled with measures of maize. We all passively watched the spectacle, uncomfortable with our voyeuristic role; we would rather be helping. A woman with rheumatoid hands passed her sack to the scooper, where she received extra doses indicating her grandchildren were many. When the sack was filled, its weight and mass were clear. And Jane implored aloud, reaching toward the sack, “How will she carry that?” Jane would have gladly unburdened her of her load and carried it to her home for her. But the woman, with concealed strength, hoisted the sack to her head, clutched her walking stick in her gnarled hand, and turned to face the steep incline home. Perhaps she was a little more hunched as she left, perhaps her impressions against the red soil were deeper for the weight, but this burden meant sustenance for her family for the next week.

Outside the tin shack, the storage room for the maize, another woman scattered a trail of kernels from a hole in the bottom of her sack. Jane squatted down in the dirt and lovingly gathered each kernel, and uttered aloud a private affirmation, “Every one of them counts, right?”

Every one of them counts. Every year, every loss, every ache, every echo of a child’s laugh, every memory of a time of strength and courage, they all count when adding up the life of an Elder. Their wisdom is the source of our hope, an assurance that life’s dreams will continuously regenerate and life’s challenges will be tackled by the force of experience.

At the end of day 6, Peter, the first to arrive at camp, waited in the shade for Jane. When she ambled into camp, he yelled to her, “How’s it going, baby?” And Jane smiled at him from beneath the brim of her hat, brandishing a thumbs up. It was going okay. They had reached the end of the day, and could finally drape their arms across each other’s shoulders, a daily ritual, with heads bowed and foreheads touching. They shared energy reserves and gave private and prayerful thanks for life, and perhaps renewed their vows … to keep going.

This morning when I woke up, my body ached and I groaned with the effort to upright myself. I’m nearly 50 with premature joint pain. I probably complain to my wife more than I should about this, secretly hoping that sympathy will be the balm to ease the way. But I know there is no balm but fortitude when it comes to aging — fortitude in the knowledge that life’s path is best navigated from the heart, pain is only a distraction aimed to slow you down, and love conquers all. I should hug my wife tonight to remind myself of that simple truth, a truth that can only be imparted by witnessing the strength and accomplishments of our Elders.

: Jane sings a verse of “500 Miles”

: Peter inspecting the troops. At the Ongoro Children’s Home, the orphans sing and march, welcoming us to their home.

: Jane showers a baby with affection.

: Joe and Peter lead us along the Migori road.

: Jane and Peter ride out of the Rift Valley

: Peter chats with the fishmonger in Nairobi.

: Jane observes the hippos from the banks of the Mara river.

: Jane getting an assist from David across a creek.

: Peter negotiating with an artist at Nairobi’s City Market.

: Our elders lead the day.

Time and Love, Part 5 of Tembea Na Mimi

September 4, 2015 Jeff & Hillary James Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 5 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

Rob walked with James, our Maasai guide, showering him in conversation. “What are those animals there, James?” Rob inquired, pointing far into the distance. “They are cattle,” says James. “Cattle? They look like sheep. Are they calves?” Rob persisted. “They’re cattle,” James repeats. “They sure look like sheep. How many cows and sheep do you have, James?”

Rob taught James a song called “Put a Melody in my Heart,” which required sticking your tongue out and waggling your bottom. An unusual sight on the Kenyan plains, but somehow fitting and funny. James struggled with the “L” sound and could only sing “merody.” This made them laugh like kids, inducing a great spirit for walking. And walking is what they did, Rob probing James’ life, eager to know about his family and his culture, forging a connection deeper than the mark of their footprints on the savanna.

As the day wore on our questions pivoted, and became more time-oriented. We’d ask, “How far ’til camp, James?” “It is just there, over that hill,” says James. “About 3km. One hour of walking.” And then 2 hours later, we’d ask again, “How many more miles to camp, James?’ And James’ reply was just the same. It was always just over the hill, a couple of kilometers away. Day after day that pattern continued and we vowed never to trust James’ time estimates again. At first we thought it was just James, but then our next guide Gisoi came along, ushering us from the edge of the Mara conservancy to the top of the escarpment. And after Gisoi, it was George and countless other Kenyans along the way, guiding us with time and distance estimates which were never, NEVER accurate.

We were obsessed with time. We needed to wake up at 5:15, have our packs camel-ready by 6:15, and start walking by 7:00. We would walk for 50 minutes and rest for 10. Gadgets and maps were pulled out at breaks to triangulate our whereabouts, communicating with satellites, modern day angels tracking our steps. Rob had the best gadget, sending a ping to the heavens every 10 minutes. We would determine the crow-fly distance, factor in number of steps taken since morning, add 20% for weaves and dips to reach the total number of miles walked. We then converted this to kilometers so our guides could understand what we were talking about. “What’s that conversion formula again?” I would turn and ask Rob. And he would mutter some equation at me, which I would promptly forget. And when factoring was complete we would determine, almost always, that we still had miles to cover before we could camp.

We had 15 miles a day we needed to walk; we wrote it in our brochure and put it on the website. 1 cause, 10 days, 150 miles, 4 million steps . . . whatever! We did more, and we dedicated ourselves to more than one cause. But they’re numbers and they drive us. We westerners need our precious first world constructs of time to determine value. If it can’t be measured it’s probably not worth doing, right? Wrong!

It’s insanity measuring life in numbers. Kenyans were notoriously bad at time and distance estimates because those are irrelevant in their lives. The schedules that drive life in the bush, “Africa time”, are determined by the seasons of rain and where the sun rests in the sky, not by punching clocks, board meetings, or Gantt charts.

I once received directions from an old man who said our destination was “four sees” that way. Which meant that from where we stood to the horizon was “one see,” and the distance to our destination was that times four. His life was not spent clocking miles in a car. He was a walker; distance was measured by sight and time by the sun. Days and years are not counted, birthdays aren’t celebrated, and there are no guidelines about the number of meals one should eat per day. It could be days before the next proper meal.

But life goes on. The sun rises, water is fetched, the ground is tilled, seeds sowed, wood collected, and a child dreams of going to school before running off to usher home the livestock. Neighbors share a laugh. Laughter is abundant in rural Africa, tipping the scale of life towards joy. Perhaps the essence of community is not in the tidiness of your neighbor’s hedges, but rather in the laughter shared over the top of them. Rob seemed to recognize this. The sound of his laughter mingled with the Africans in a shared appreciation for the joy of being alive, walking, together, on Africa time.

Esoterically, I wondered as we walked through these impoverished communities, if one’s existence is not measured by what you own or accomplish in life, how then is life’s value determined? Is there a measure for a life well lived? Is life’s value intrinsic, imparted at birth by a mother’s first kiss? Poverty’s children are not unloved; they’re just hungry for opportunity and nutrition. Perhaps in the absence of material wealth, emotional wealth becomes the greatest commodity. Perhaps “Africa time” is not the absence of motivation, but instead the presence of love…love for the simple experience of being in this world.

On the last day of walking, we skipped many of our 10 minute breaks. From Othoo on, our stride had found new strength, our destination was soon in sight. It was our final stretch of road. It might have been the road to Emmaus for all I knew; the large crowd around us could easily have concealed a saint. We were euphoric, enveloped in accomplishment, energized by the bustle.

Our gadgets were finally tucked away. We knew we would arrive the way we started, walking. I was welling with the urge to weep or laugh. And then Rob did both. “Jeff, look!” he cried, pointing down the road toward a chorus of nurses, healers dressed in blue and white dancing toward us, singing a gospel song. Our groups merged into one, and the song floated along for our participation. And so we sang, “We are marching, we are marching. We are marching in the light of God.” In the Kenyan rendition of the song, there’s a sweet howl tucked onto the end of “God,” lovingly drawing out His name.

Rob Andzik embodies a brilliant balance of western time and African time. He’s an engineer who launches satellites into space, those angels that enabled us to communicate and navigate and keep to our schedule. Rob’s work world is driven by technology, and his professional life is no doubt steeped in timelines and time-boxed meetings. The world of business needs to operate that way, and it’s a rare individual who can be equally comfortable in that realm and also at ease in Africa time. Rob is fluent in both. There’s a Swahili saying, “Haraka, haraka, ha ina baraka,” which means hurry, hurry has no blessings. It is the blessings in life that matter. We seek blessings by doing good, and our lives are enriched in return. And those blessings require a different quality of time, committed time invested out of love.

In the presence of orphans, children in need, Rob gifts them with earnest, genuine love and devoted time. It’s an incredible sight, this man engaging with children and the downtrodden, his world of business and technology as far away as those satellites in celestial orbit floating above him. He is a champion of the cause, the 1 cause that is many, and as Lalmba’s chairman he skillfully intertwines his time as husband, father, and engineer with being “A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, God in his holy dwelling.” ~Psalm 68:5

: Rob greets Joyce, Lalmba’s long-time cook in Kenya.

: 6 Am, and Rob’s pack is ready for the camel.

: Rob and his gadget, sending pings to heaven.

: Rob photo bombing the trail camera. Intended to catch pictures of wild beasts around our camp at night, it only captured us.

: Photographing hippos on the Mara river.

: At Lalmba’s compound in Matoso, Rob walks with some children to the lake. Our journey had just ended and a swim was in order.

: Rob greets one of the guardians from Lalmba’s RCAR program. The guardians are single grandmothers, inheritors of the plight of AIDS and responsible for keeping their grandchildren, their communities and their culture alive.

Reflections From a Lalmba Volunteer

Gift of Hope:

A Letter from a former Lalmba orphan

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Understanding Poverty

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From the Field

This is Part 10 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

This is Part 9 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

Seen through the foggy wind shield of a visiting Jeep, Yogesh zips his pack in preparation for walking.

Around the campfire.

Yogesh eating trail food is a road-side attraction.

Many women, young and old, asked for Yogesh. They literally wanted us to leave him behind for them to adopt or marry.

Filling water bottles at break.

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

This is Part 7 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

Terry at the Flora Hostel. Photograph by Yogesh Aradhey

After walking all day, Terry still has the energy to walk on Fred’s back.

Terry and Michael spend a stretch together. Terry was energized by walking and talking with people.

Terry has a quiet moment enjoying the sunset at camp.

There must be wild animals in the distance. Terry and Rob are taking aim, while James enjoys a stretch in the tall grass.

Terry Robinette, walker extraordinaire. Photograph by Rob Andzik

This is Part 6 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

Jane sings a verse of “500 Miles”

Peter inspecting the troops. At the Ongoro Children’s Home, the orphans sing and march, welcoming us to their home.

Jane showers a baby with affection.

Joe and Peter lead us along the Migori road.

Jane and Peter ride out of the Rift Valley

Peter chats with the fishmonger in Nairobi.

Jane observes the hippos from the banks of the Mara river.

Jane getting an assist from David across a creek.

Peter negotiating with an artist at Nairobi’s City Market.

Our elders lead the day.

This is Part 5 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

Rob greets Joyce, Lalmba’s long-time cook in Kenya.

6 Am, and Rob’s pack is ready for the camel.

Rob and his gadget, sending pings to heaven.

Rob photo bombing the trail camera. Intended to catch pictures of wild beasts around our camp at night, it only captured us.

Photographing hippos on the Mara river.

At Lalmba’s compound in Matoso, Rob walks with some children to the lake. Our journey had just ended and a swim was in order.

Rob greets one of the guardians from Lalmba’s RCAR program. The guardians are single grandmothers, inheritors of the plight of AIDS and responsible for keeping their grandchildren, their communities and their culture alive.

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