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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

Ooo Le La Lo, Part 1 of Tembea Na Mimi

August 26, 2015 Jeff & Hillary James Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 1 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

The blisters on my feet have healed and the limp has gone away, but what lingers the longest are these words softly sung from recent, precious memories: “Ooo le la lo, ooo le la lo, ooo le la lo, la le loooo . . .” It’s a call and response song, and no matter where I am or what I’m doing when that memory calls, I respond: “Le laaa lo, le la-la lo. Le laaa lo, le la-la loooo.” It’s a song with a melody that rides the crest of your breath, and just makes you want to smile.

Meaningless words they were, but we all understood them to mean love and friendship. And we witnessed this song bridging language and culture, closing many divides between us.

We sang with our guides around the fire at night and we sang with hundreds of people who gathered to watch us pick ourselves up and wring ourselves out after being pummeled by monsoon rains.

We sang with orphans, and patiently waited for their echoed response, which invariably came. Once sung, these were words that had to be repeated, even if only silently in the quiet of the mind.

A song, 22 camels, 2 Canadians, 9 Americans, 2 Scots, 9 Kenyans, “thereabouts,” and a lot of land to cover, we marched for 10 days covering 163 miles.

But the distance and time are no longer relevant; they never really were. They are just numbers to help quantify what we did, vying to impress you with our strength and commitment to complete a great physical challenge.

The real adventure story is not the physical challenges or the daring passages through wild lands (although there were plenty of those). It’s the people who came together to complete this mission who are the fabric of this tapestry. The fabric of all adventures is woven by the characters who lived them.

Over the course of the next several weeks, I will reveal to you a journey rich in adventure, saturated with ardent altruism and with noble deeds. These are good people. Expect good stories.

: Thea Nation shares a song and dance with Bara Bara, our lead guide.

First, there’s Mama Thea who taught us the song to heal and lift our beaten spirits. She was a healer by trade, a retired hospice nurse, who has no doubt provided comfort to hundreds of dying lives, and as I’ve experienced firsthand, to the vibrant as well. I use that term loosely.

Thea massaged the feet of the sore and dressed the blistered wounds of the ailing. At the sight of one mangled foot she declared it “positively unattractive,” and then proceeded to clean and mend. She is a healer. Thea Nation, R.N. (retired nurse) she liked to exclaim. She was the anchor thread to our tapestry, the zig to our zag, our comic relief and confidant, she was the Queen Mother. Riding high atop the camel, she surfed to the camel’s gait, arms outstretched, fluid and regal. All wanted to bow in her presence; some did.

I don’t know when Thea began a life of service, I suspect she’s been a giver her entire life. Her history with Lalmba spans 30 years, first aiding Eritrean refugees in the Sudan in the 1980’s.

When I met her in Nairobi, she had just finished serving as a hospice nurse in Tanzania. I have no doubt her CV is filled with great deeds of humanitarianism. I have even less doubt that her healing extends far beyond the confines of her profession. She touches the lives of everyone she meets. She makes everyone feel special and a little happier to have shared an experience with her, no matter how brief.

: Thea enjoys the morning light. Morning time, when the shadows are long and the legs fresh (yes, that is a kilt you see), it’s the ideal time for looking around. As the afternoon wanes and the legs and feet tire, we struggled to look past our feet. Each step becomes measured by the energy left to keep us upright and moving forward.

: Thea and Michael Nation (siblings) share a boulder and some trail food. Here we are in the north Maasai Mara conservancy, heading southwest, looking out over pastoral land grazed by Maasai livestock, primarily goats, sheep and cattle.

: Thea and Jane Obernesser enjoying the sunset and a conversation after a long day of walking.

: Thea hugs James, our Maasai guide, goodbye. James was hired to guide us through the Mara conservancy. We said goodbye after day 6 and met a new guide to take us to Kihanche. James could spot wildlife miles away. We all strived to develop the Maasai Eye.

: Thea hydrates along the roadside.



: After the monsoon. Thea leads a group of children in singing “Ooo Le La Lo.”

: Thea makes friends with one of Lalmba’s RCAR children, a young girl with drug-resistant HIV.

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Scars and Memories, Part 9 of Tembea Na Mimi

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.

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

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

Ooo Le La Lo, Part 1 of Tembea Na Mimi

This is Part 1 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

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