In Matoso, Kenya, and Agaro Bushi, Ethiopia, amidst the verdant fields of these rural communities, lies a silent crisis that touches the most vulnerable: our children. Malnutrition, a dire consequence of food scarcity, inadequate storage, and economic instability, threatens the future of countless young lives. At Lalmba, we witness daily the struggles and resilience of families fighting against the grip of hunger.
The story of a little bright-eyed young boy from a remote village near Matoso, brings this crisis to life. His journey to Lalmba began with his grandmother’s desperate walk to our clinic, seeking help for her grandson’s alarming weight loss and lethargy, classic signs of severe malnutrition. Like many in the surrounding areas, his family depended on small-scale farming and fishing, which, in recent years, has become increasingly unreliable due to shifting weather patterns and over-fishing in the lake.
Upon their arrival, his hungry grandmother was greeted with warmth and immediate action. Our staff quickly identified this young boy as severely malnourished, with not long to live unless immediate action was taken. They were both enrolled in our Chakula Bora program and received life-saving nutritional support and medical care.
The recovery of malnourished children like this little boy is both rapid and remarkable. Within weeks, children who once faced severe health risks due to malnutrition begin to show signs of improvement. Their energy returns, their smiles brighten, and they start to engage with the world around them in new ways. This swift transformation underscores the impact of Lalmba’s efforts and the resilience of the human spirit.
But our commitment extends beyond helping a child recover. Through education on locally fortified foods and sustainable practices, we empower families to sustain their health gains. This holistic approach ensures that children not onlyrecover but also thrive, embarking on a new beginning filled with possibilities.
Your support is crucial in this life-saving mission. Together, we can continue to provide hope and healing to children and families at the end of the road. Join us in transforming lives and nurturing futures, one child at a time.
Navigating the Challenges of Food Insecurity
As we continue Lalmba’s mission to support the most vulnerable, recent trends have highlighted an alarming rise in malnutrition cases within the communities we serve in Kenya and Ethiopia. This increase prompts us to delve deeper into the underlying causes, seeking not only to provide immediate aid but also to address the root issues contributing to food scarcity.
In the regions surrounding Agaro Bushi, Ethiopia, and Matoso, Kenya, several factors exacerbate the challenge of securing sufficient, nutritious food. A significant portion of these communities relies on subsistence farming, dependent on natural rainfall and traditional storage methods. However, the absence of electricity complicates food preservation, leaving families vulnerable to crop failures and food shortages.
Moreover, both countries face the double burden of relying on imported food staples, such as cooking oil and fatty foods, while grappling with national inflation and the high cost of fuel. These economic pressures make it increasingly difficult for families to afford the essentials, pushing more households into food insecurity.
The situation is further complicated by changing weather patterns, with prolonged droughts and unpredictable rainy seasons disrupting traditional agricultural practices. Livestock, a critical source of nutrition and income for many families, suffer from the lack of water and grazing land, leading to decreased food availability and higher prices for meat and milk.
As we navigate these challenges, Lalmba’s approach focuses on comprehensive support for affected families. From initial medical treatment and nutritional support to education on sustainable food practices, our goal is to empower communities to overcome these obstacles. By understanding the complex web of factors contributing to malnutrition, we can tailor our interventions to meet the immediate and long-term needs of those we serve.
Dehydration is a problem with malnourished children and in severe malnutrition, special formulas and rehydration solution are needed. Resomal, a oral rehydration solution, and the F-100 formula are not available through MEDS (Mission for Essential Drugs and Supplies). Dehydration would be a reason for referral to a nearby hospital. They are also more prone to infection so a severe presentation of an illness such as Malaria could be another reason for referral. All other cases are treated as outpatient care by our clincal staff.
Dr. Manasa Irwin Lalmba International Medical Director (Kenya)
On September 21, 1963, Hugh Downey stepped out of his US Army post in Eritrea and began a journey serving the people in Africa. For 60 years Lalmba has continued helping the poor and destitute, those forgotten at the “the end of the road”, achieve a better life. Celebrations for the 60th anniversary have been held in Kenya and Ethiopia. This month we are celebrating in the US. Yet we are constantly reminded there is still suffering and poverty. Lalmba’s journey continues.
Meet Mekdes
By Joan Marques
Lalmba’s 60th celebration at the Chiri Children’s home had just ended with joyful screams of children scrambling after candy falling from a piñata. As the guests were leaving, Aselefich, our RCAR Program Director, received word from the local department of social services that a newborn baby girl had been brought to the nearby government health center. Her mother had tragically died from malaria less than a week after giving birth and her father was not capable of caring for his daughter. Aselefich, Atinafu, Lalmba’s Country Director, and Minalush, Outreach Assistant, quickly drove to the health center where they found a young man, with tears in his eyes, holding an infant. An infant named Mekdes.
It is no small task taking in an infant and our staff fully understands the responsibility. Working with the head of the local social services, our staff learned more about the situation. The young couple was from a distant part of Ethiopia. They were unemployed and destitute so the government relocated them to this remote area and lent them a plot of land to farm. Neither the mother or father spoke any of the local languages and couldn’t communicate with anyone. After the mother tragically passed away he felt lost and abandoned with no way to care for his daughter. So he brought her to the local woreda (county) office and they brought her to Lalmba’s attention.
With compassion and empathy, our staff and the social workers tried to communicate the plan but we could see in his eyes that he didn’t understand. Finally a translator arrived and was able to share the plan, inform him of his rights and obligations, and confirm his consent for Lalmba to care for Mekdes for a few years while he gets his farm started.
We will do everything we can to reunify Mekdes with her father in a few years. Meanwhile, she will be living in the Chiri Children’s Home where she will receive love and loads of attention from our house mothers and her new siblings. She is our newest and youngest family member. Welcome to your new home, Mekdes!
60th Celebrations in Kenya and Ethiopia
By Rob Andzik
We want to extend a very special thank you to the TNM 2023 Team for walking and helping kick off the celebrations in Kenya, and to all those in both Kenya and Ethiopia who helped organize the celebrations!
Compassion, Courage, Empowerment, and Community
By Rob Andzik
Not everyone can make a journey like Tembea Na Mimi, visit the remote communities Lalmba supports, and witness the transformative impact of your donations firsthand. But if you could, what you would see is nothing short of a testament to the power of compassion, courage, empowerment, and community.
Many organizations do great work, promise efficient use of your donations, and aim to help the poor and destitute. So, what sets Lalmba apart? Lalmba’s uniqueness lies in these four words: Compassion, Courage, Empowerment, and Community.
Since 1963, Lalmba has been dedicated to serving some of the most remote and underserved communities in Africa. These are places that are hard to reach, far from the global media spotlight, where impoverished people are marginalized and virtually invisible to their own countries. It takes a great deal of Compassion and Courage to work in such challenging environments.
What truly sets Lalmba apart is our unwavering commitment to Empowerment. We don’t dictate; we collaborate. Lalmba provides for basic needs and also creates employment opportunities. We help single mothers start businesses through microloans. We help children receive an education and grow up healthy, with the potential to prosper. Above all, we prioritize the African people we serve, empowering them to lead change, and take ownership of their own futures. An example of this will be our new Education Center in Kenya, teaching skills needed to thrive in today’s world.
This philosophy leads us to Community. Lalmba is an integral part of the communities we work with, and the local people, together with our dedicated African staff, embodies the spirit of Lalmba as a People of Hope. Throughout Lalmba’s history, there have been countless stories of communities rallying together to overcome challenges. This spirit remains as strong as ever.
We witnessed this in Agaro Bushi, where we’re currently building staff housing. The trucks carrying materials couldn’t make the final steep climb due to mud and rough roads, stopping 3 km away. What we saw was remarkable: the community united, transporting building supplies on horses and their backs to ensure our clinic, which is, in truth, their clinic, could serve those in need.
The next day, in the cold pouring rain, it came full circle as three small boys walked into the clinic shivering with hypothermia. They had traveled alone and barefoot for two hours, from an even more remote community, so that their youngest brother could receive medical attention for a wound on his head. With Compassion, our staff tended to the wound, warmed these small boys to stop the shivering, and made sure they got safely home.
I invite you to join us on this remarkable journey. Your generosity fuels Lalmba’s work, ensuring that the impact continues for years to come. Together, with Lalmba’s staff and local leaders, we are transforming lives – one community, and in this case, three small boys, and an infant named Mekdes, at a time.
Reflections on the Road – Tembea Na Mimi 2023
By Jennifer Wenningkamp
It was the final day of our charity walk – Tembea Na Mimi 2023. About half of our staff joined the TNM team and walked the journey between Ochuna and Matoso and I loved every moment of it. The glorious sounds of children singing and playing drums, people walking with us, dancing, and carrying banners, the taste of dust in my mouth, and the smell of camels overwhelmed my senses.
I closed my eyes, took a deep, warm breath, and was struck by the stark contrast between this day’s celebratory trek connecting Lalmba’s two clinics in Kenya and one of Lalmba’s earlier epic journeys years ago. What must it have been like to walk hundreds of miles from Keren, Eritrea, with the hope of finding safety in Sudan? It must have been eerily silent in 1977 when Sium led hundreds of children through the desert in the middle of the night, escaping a dangerous war zone that threatened the lives of Sium’s family and all of Lalmba’s 250 children.
That journey saved the lives of hundreds of children and and fundamentally reshaped Lalmba as an organization. It shifted us from being anchored in one city, a Place of Hope in Keren Eritrea, to being an organization firmly rooted in protecting the children and patients in our care. At great risk, Lalmba became a courageous people of hope.
Today, Lalmba remains committed to the essence of its name. Wherever we operate, we establish a Place of Hope. Wherever we go, we are a People of Hope. As we celebrate Lalmba’s 60th Anniversary, we reaffirm our dedication to being both a Place and a People of Hope.
Here are some exclusive TNM 2023 photos not included in the printed version of this newsletter.
We invite you to be a part of the 60th celebration by sending a special donation of $60 or more. Why are we asking for your help? We don’t rely on massive grants or government contracts; we operate at the pace of your generosity and we have so much more to do. We honor your contributions by keeping costs low here in the US. Approximately 90 cents of every dollar donated directly supports our programs. We are unwavering in our commitment to our mission and our vision for the people and communities we serve.
That’s why your participation in Lalmba is crucial. Your donations, gifts, and volunteerism are what keep the organization going and fuel the work of Lalmba.
It has truly been a long and beautiful story since Lalmba’s humble beginnings in 1963. But this story isn’t really about Lalmba. It’s a story about wonderful and amazing people living in marginalized communities at the “end of the road” and the challenges they face. It is a story about their children whose future is limited by the lack of health care, education, and income for their families. And most of all, it is a story about poor people overcoming these challenges with the limited resources they have and the support of amazing people like you who believe in Lalmba’s mission and long-term commitment to these wonderful communities.
That is just as true today as it was nearly 60 years ago when Hugh and Marty started Lalmba. Working in these communities is not easy. Every small victory brings new and unforeseen challenges and yet with compassion, courage and faith great things can happen.
So it’s no surprise that in the remote area of Ethiopia where our Chiri Children’s home is, we face numerous challenges and delays, especially from the environment. We have spent the last couple of years making improvements to the children’s home and those upgrades have come along very well. As part of our plan, we intended to repurpose the existing boy’s and girl’s dormitories (built about 11 years ago) as part of a learning center once the new dormitories were built.
Unfortunately heavy rains have caused delays and early last year Aselefich, our children’s program director, started to notice that water had infiltrated the walls in the boy’s dormitory causing large cracks to form. Eventually the damage got to the point where she had to move our boys into the “big house” where everyone gathers for meals, homework, and family fun. So for the last five months what was a dining room now also has been serving as the boy’s temporary bedroom.
The new boys dormitory with Aselefech showing us the inside.
With the limited resources we have we had to reprioritize, but we are happy to say that a new dorm is being constructed! We found a builder who could urgently clear the rubble and rebuild the home with better materials. Today the boy’s home is nearly finished and everyone is excited about that good news.
Leading Together
By Rob Andzik
We believe that empowerment is a critical part of Lalmba’s “special recipe” and a cornerstone to a prosperous future. Rather than sending armies of western volunteers to solve the problems and do the work, we employ local people and whenever possible promote them into key leadership positions and then ask them how they would solve the problems they see.
In 2007, this became a reality when we handed over the management of Lalmba’s Kenyan programs to Marico Osiyo Awino. Marico was hired in 1984 as a carpenter and then started moving up through the ranks. He successfully managed and led the staff and programs in Kenya for the past 16 years through both good times and bad. You probably have heard his name before through our newsletters and if you follow our social media posts, you may have seen that this past January our Kenyan staff, along with members of the local community and Lalmba USA representatives, celebrated Marico’s retirement and thanked him for his many years of service. He has been both a blessing and a true champion of the work Lalmba has done serving the people in Kenya and we extend our deepest gratitude to him for everything he has done.
As with any organization, the immediate question when such a critical leader leaves is “who is going to take over now? Well, we have been working on that for quite some time. Fortunately we have a very strong leader who has been serving as our Deputy Project Director. Jenipher Atieno has been Marico’s right hand and Deputy for well over a decade and we are very excited to announce that she has now taken over as Project Director.
But that simply resolves who will be next. We want to ensure an enduring and prosperous future for Lalmba Kenya and the people in and around Matoso. Over the last year and with the help of our first volunteer in Kenya, Gruffie Clough, we have been conducting a leadership training initiative that the team in Kenya named “Leading Together”. Utilizing her background as an executive coach and working with organizations like Outward Bound, Gruffie put together a curriculum specially tailored for our leadership team and the challenges we face in and around Matoso.
Gruffie and the Leading Together team
The training aimed to empower the leadership team to effectively lead and manage their programs and staff, with a focus on improving the quality of our services and impacts they have. The Leading Together sessions consisted of workshops and one-on-one sessions with experienced trainers, covering topics such as team building, conflict resolution, and financial management.
Our New Volunteer in Kenya
We are excited to introduce our new volunteer in Kenya, Dr. Jamie Reed. He will be working with the clinic staff in Matoso and Ochuna for the next year. Here is a little bit on his background.
Immediately after my Army discharge as a Medic, my 3 children and I began serving communities in need. It began with ministering to youth groups within our country, with the heart filled with selfless service and love of our fellow man. I began my 11-year educational journey shortly thereafter and obtained my Doctorate of Chiropractic and Doctor of Nursing Practice degrees with a focus on HIV medicine. I then began serving in underserved communities suffering from HIV/AIDS and other infectious diseases. These communities included those of Mexican descent and Indigenous peoples from the US and Canada. Being of African descent myself, it had always been my life’s goal to one day visit the continent of Africa. Once I was presented with an opportunity to serve in Kenya, I knew that my prayers were answered. I look forward to learning, growing, laughing and serving with the Lalmba family.
The tradition continues! In July of 2023 we will be stepping off on our 5th Tembea Na Mimi charity walk across Kenya. Tembea Na Mimi means “walk with me” in Kiswahili. It is a transformational journey of the heart, mind, and soul, as we walk in the footsteps of the people Lalmba serves. If you haven’t heard about these amazing walks, we spend 10 days trekking across the Maasi Mara and rural Kenya to Lalmba’s clinic on the shores of Lake Victoria.
Each walker pays the cost of their own journey and is challenged with the goal of raising $10,000 for Lalmba. For more information, please check out www.lalmba.org/tnm. Most importantly if you are interested in joining us, or know someone who might be, please let us know! To contact us email tnm@lalmba.org or call 720-260-6785.
This year’s Christmas gift for you is a brightly colored African Katanga apron, perfect for preparing a holiday meal or gift of sweets while guaranteeing that Lalmba’s programs provide meals and nutrient enriched foods for babies and folks who are recipients in our malnourishment program called Chakula Bora.
Each handmade apron is quilted together by a group of women tailors, who are successful Lalmba Kenya micro-loan recipients. This is a one-of-a-kind gift – made up of a collection of fabric “scraps” from African Katanga – brightly colored cotton material with bold patterns.
This year’s Christmas gift, a quilted Katanga apron, comes with a secret recipe inside the front apron pocket and Lalmba’s unique guarantee. If you are a long-time reader of Lalmba newsletters, or “Hugh’s News” then you may remember this: This Guarantee remains true!
Lalmba’s annual Christmas project started in 1984 during the Great African Famine when Hugh and Marty Downey began selling hamburgers for $100. The proceeds went directly to starving people in Africa. Decades later, the tradition continues. Lalmba’s valued supporters are presented with an opportunity to acquire something unique and special while offering a creative way for you to participate in this important work in East Africa.
Tucked into the front pocket of Lalmba’s Christmas gift is our secret “Recipe for Hope”. While the secret recipe won’t be fully revealed here, we want to share this moving story of one of our heroes at Lalmba’s Ochuna Dispensory, Kenya.
Mary Okeyo is our head nurse at the Ochuna Dispensory and a vital part of Lalmba’s recipe for hope. She is a unique woman whose hands bring healing and whose voice brings comfort – and whose dance brings hope. Mary has a tangible presence of “joyful hope” about her being.
Each day at the Ochuna clinic brings its own challenges and joys. This day was no different as Mary moved from one room to another in her joyful, soft, and even dance-like walk, proudly leading a group of visitors on a tour through the clinic. Her knowledge and sense of ownership was palpable as she vistied the pharmacy, treatment rooms, and offices. Every step seemed to take Mary from one state of mind to a even higher one as she described the facilities, the community and work Lalmba does. She was in her element and her smile broadened even more with each patient she saw.
Yet her focus switched in an instant to the realities of working in such a remote area when an emergency suddenly required her undivided attention. A young mother had just arrived with a screaming baby who was in terrible pain. The mother explained how her child had been healthy and happy until a few weeks ago. She didn’t know what led to her child’s suffering but was desperate to see the child recover – so desperate that she walked for hours to reach the clinic. Mary comforted the mother as she gathered medical information. Then she moved the mother and child into a private treatment room and began to cover the baby with soothing zinc ointment. This ointment soothes skin irritation, and hopefully prevented further skin damage, but the peeling skin, the source of the baby’s agony, is a likely symptom of Severe and Acute Malnutrition (SAM). Mary gently bathed the infant and prescribed “plumpy nut” a form of nutrient enriched food and follow-up visits until the child has graduated from our Malnutrition program called Chakula Bora.
Grandmother and her grandchildren at Chakula Bora
Chakula Bora aims at preventing death due to malnutrition and starvation through regular nutrition classes, weighing and measuring children’s growth, and the distribution of life-saving foods.
We cannot begin to thank you enough for your support as our staff passionately care for these babies whose mothers and grandmothers arrive desperately seeking medical and food assistance.
God bless you, and may your Christmas be filled with Hope.
The tradition continues! In July of 2023 we will be stepping off on our 5th Tembea Na Mimi charity walk across Kenya. Tembea Na Mimi means “walk with me” in Kiswahili. It is a transformational journey of the heart, mind, and soul, as we walk in the footsteps of the people Lalmba serves. If you haven’t heard about these amazing walks, we spend 10 days trekking across the Maasi Mara and rural Kenya to Lalmba’s clinic on the shores of Lake Victoria.
Each walker pays the cost of their own journey and is challenged with the goal of raising $10,000 for Lalmba. For more information, please check out www.lalmba.org/tnm. Most importantly if you are interested in joining us, or know someone who might be, please let us know! To contact us email tnm@lalmba.org or call 720-260-6785.
For the past 9 years we have been blessed to be at the helm of this efficient, thoughtful, and effective organization. We want to let you know that we will be moving on from Lalmba this summer. Our departure from Lalmba will take us on a new path in development work. Though our hearts will yearn for the people and places that have marked our lives and touched our souls, we take great pride in knowing that Lalmba’s wake still spreads wide and, tucked neatly within that long and rich timeline of Lalmba history, is the birth of a family, our family.
After 18 years of our affiliation with Lalmba (We just celebrated our 18th wedding anniversary last month!) we will be pursuing other work in development that will continue to allow us to work together as a team, which we have learned to do well. This change will bring us closer to what is dearest to us, families. We will be leading a small organization called Maternal Life International, which aims to promote safe births and healthy families in the developing world. If there are paths out of poverty and gateways to redemption, this surely is one of them, and we feel called to help.
We want to assure you that Lalmba also remains our family, and Lalmba has great parents. The Lalmba board of directors is dedicated and extremely capable of sailing this ship until new leadership is in place, and we will always be supporters, like you!
Hillary: When I think back to my beginnings with Lalmba, our first night as volunteers on our way to Lalmba’s project in Ethiopia comes to mind. Jeff and I had married just a month before and volunteered for an adventure to serve for 2 years in the rainforest as project directors. Jeff already knew Africa, as he had spent several years living in Kenya. We arrived at our hotel in Addis Ababa, an unsanitary hole-in-the-wall place that offered rooms by the hour. As we lay in bed my first night in Africa, I looked up in the rafters and saw a long rat tail moving along the roofline. I put my head on Jeff’s chest and cried and cried, telling him, “I can’t do this! I want to go home!”
Jeff reassured me and told me, “It will get better. You will learn how to do this.”
And he was right. My time living alongside the poor for those 2 years and then leading the organization since 2013, I have ‘learned how.’ Poverty is just one of many features of the rich lives we encountered, and what an honor to represent Lalmba to them, a force for hope and opportunity to pursue their dreams, dreams that are no less grand than ours.
Jeff: In September 2005, our son Gideon was just 4 weeks old when we returned to Ethiopia from home leave. This time around, I was the one who needed reassurance. To call me overprotective and worried is an understatement. I feared if we put him on the ground the fire ants would envelop him and carry him away. Or that every spoon that entered his mouth was a petri dish for amoebic dysentery.
Hillary and Gideon, Tejbet, Chiri town, 2005
But then I saw Hillary mothering him with confidence in the same manner as every other mother in the village, innately knowing the difference between a hungry, tired, and wet cry – and I realized that I had a lot to learn, but with her great example, I would “learn how” to do it.
Probably because it was here that I first became a father, what I remember most about all my years of project work, are the worried and desolate parents, perched on the edge of a hospital bed, hopeful that being in this setting would bring forth a cure. Although Lalmba has saved many lives, there remains an outsized amount of heartache for the poor in this world.
Chiri, Ethiopia 2005 – Mother and son
I remember a tender scene of a mother gently caressing the cheek of her sick child as he labored to breathe. Her hand seemed to fold into the contours of his cheek, as if hoping his peaceful expression would be permanently marked on her palm. I wanted a picture of them because, as a tableau, it illustrated to me what pure love looks like. But as I lifted the camera to my eye, I heard her gasp, and saw his eyes cloud over, and her body slump forward into heaving sobs. All I could do was bow my head and pray.
I don’t know why I share this sad story. If you’ve learned our style, it is the joyous moments that we strive to share, for their impact resonates longest. But we all also know the ache of losing a loved one, that process of letting go, and the strength and sense of purpose that can be derived from grief. Closing this chapter of our life feels a bit like that.
When we reflect on our tenure, we appreciate what your support has helped Lalmba accomplish in that time. One key shift was the reduction of dependence on food aid in Kenya, with a transition to a microloan program to allow families to make sustainable income instead. Lalmba successfully handed over Chiri Health Center in the now booming town of Chiri, Ethiopia, to a partner, moving to a much more remote area of Agaro Bushi which had no adequate health care options. We managed to build a clinic without a fully functional road and have begun orphan care services there. It wasn’t easy, but Lalmba has always chosen the difficult path that other development agencies avoid due to the hardships.
Some of our favorite memories are moments shared with those of you we have been able to meet over the years, supporters who have believed in our mission. Cars have pulled up to our house with people getting out saying, “I’ve been sending checks to this address for so many years, and I just wanted to see what Lalmba’s office looks like.” We shared coffee, you met our children and saw our home which also served as “Lalmba’s International Headquarters.” Everyday people like you are the lifeblood of this organization.
Working with our volunteers and alumni has been a joy as well. If you want to feel hope in the inherent goodness of human beings, point to a random name on our long list of Lalmba field volunteers and you will feel inspired. Our volunteers are the key to the efficiency and accountability that Lalmba enjoys in the field.
And finally, to our friends in Africa. The children who are running through our children’s homes, the staff who have patiently taught us how to think in order to be successful in Africa, and the countless people who have influenced us along the way.
We have tried to be true to all that founders Hugh and Marty Downey modeled in their first 50 years, remaining simple, with the motto, “Ordinary people on their way to accomplishing extraordinary things.” God has blessed us with this opportunity to know Him through the poor and through you.
Hugh Downey, Eritrea 1963
The Long and Beautiful Lalmba Story
Rob Andzik, Chairman of the Board for Lalmba Association
You may have heard these words echo in newsletters past. Lalmba’s story began in 1963 with Hugh and Marty Downey and over the years countless volunteers have added their chapters. Across four countries Eritreans, Sudanease, Kenyans, and Ethiopians have contributed their own beautiful perspectives. Stories of family, challenges, successes, and tragedies have pulled on our hearts and inspired us to support Lalmba’s amazing work.
Today we recognize and thank a very special couple who have given so much of themselves to the people Lalmba serves and left their mark, shining bright, in the long and beautiful Lalmba story. Jeff and Hillary James have served Lalmba both as volunteers in Ethiopia and as our President and Vice President in the US. For nearly two decades their compassion, dedication, and frankly, blood, sweat and tears have helped empower and transform communities. They have struggled through difficult times and united us in joy for the successes.
Chiri, Ethiopia – Posy and Jeff, a sad farewell
They did all of this while raising a family of four. Jeff and Hillary alternated who stayed home and who traveled to Africa, sacrificing their family time, holidays, and significant life events while they were apart. Like all our volunteers, they willingly and humbly took personal risks to reach the remotest areas and help those at the “end of the road”.
Sometimes it is in saying goodbye that we become most aware of the impact someone has had on our lives. Recently I had the privilege of traveling with Jeff to inform our staff. While our staff was surprised and disappointed, their heartfelt statements of gratitude testified to how many lives have been touched from Jeff and Hillary’s work. The voices that rang the loudest and most pure were those of the children, many of whom have only known Jeff and Hillary as the face of Lalmba. Some of the older children, names you might recognize like Posy, Meskerim, and Kocheche, stood and with tears streaming down their faces expressed their love and thanks. They know that without Lalmba’s support their lives would be very different, if they had survived at all. And with those same tears in their eyes, they turned to me, to all of us, and simply said please don’t forget us.
Those words have echoed in my thoughts and prayers. Lalmba’s long and beautiful story is a story about children. Children in desperate need and whose future is so intimately tied to the situation they were born into. We, as Lalmba’s Board of Directors, are fully committed to helping these children and these communities lift themselves out of the cycle of poverty and into a bright and prosperous future. And it is with your continued love and support we can do this.
We have already begun the search for the next leaders of Lalmba. Someone who will adhere to Lalmba’s mission and values, join us in our love for children and the poor, and carry forward our vision of empowerment and self-sufficiency. We hope that this process will be short but we know how important it is not to rush. If you know of someone who you think would be perfect for this role please don’t hesitate to contact us.
Ongoro Children’s Home, Kenya – Rob Andzik, Lalmba board chairman, face painting with the children
In the meantime, Lalmba’s Board, and myself personally, will be stepping in to ensure uninterrupted services in these remote communities. We will be working closely with our African leadership teams and our new East African Director, Joan, to make this transition as seamless as possible. But we need your help to do this. It is only with your continued support and generosity that Lalmba can do what it does so well. So please, keep us in your thoughts and in your prayers as we enter into the next chapter of the long and beautiful story of Lalmba.
On behalf of the Board of Directors of Lalmba, I wish to express our sincere and heartfelt gratitude to Jeff and Hillary for everything they have done for Lalmba. They have touched us all with their passion and devotion to Lalmba’s mission. I know they will keep their friendships and the love they have for Lalmba as they enter a new and exciting chapter in their own lives.
So, you might be asking yourself: who is this guy and how did he end up as East Africa Director for Lalmba? Let me start by giving you a glimpse of what my life has been before I came across Lalmba. Born and raised in Barcelona, I had a very standard life for a boy in Catalonia. I was lucky enough to grow in a loving and caring family who made sure I always felt supported to pursue my dreams. I studied education as an undergraduate.
Joan Marques Comerma, Lalmba East Africa Director
In 2011, I joined a Salesian NGO and traveled to Ethiopia, a country I did not know much about except for the long-distance runners and the horrifying news I saw about droughts and famine. That summer in Ethiopia sparked my interest in international development, and a special love for Africa.
After graduating from university, I still had Ethiopia and its people in my mind and I felt I was not in the right place as a primary teacher. I was afraid, but I knew I had to step forward to focus on what I really wanted to do. An NGO offered me to volunteer in Ethiopia for one year. That experience was so enriching and transformative that I decided to pursue a master’s in international development in the UK. I was offered a volunteer position as a District Teaching Advisor in Rwanda with Volunteering Service Overseas (VSO). I was based in a small village in a northwestern district and was responsible for building the capacity of volunteers who conducted teacher training in 94 schools. After my time with VSO, most countries in the world were in lockdown due to the COVID-19 pandemic. I grew tired of spending hours submitting applications for organizations and not getting any positive response. One day, I got an email from Jeff and Hillary about working with Lalmba in Ethiopia.
I arrived in Chiri in early June 2021. I started working side by side with the staff, especially with Aselefech, the Children’s Director. She has been living in Kaffa all her life, working with Lalmba for more than 20 years and has a wealth of experience. Her commitment and her determination make her easy to work with, despite the communication barrier and cultural differences.
As RCAR Program Director, I oversaw operations while building a strong organizational structure and empowering the local staff. I have been able to more individualized support to the staff members, especially the ones working in the office.
Now, as the East Africa Director, I will be responsible for directing the operations of the projects in Ethiopia and Kenya. This will involve traveling back and forth between countries and working closely with the project managers to strengthen the organizational structure and ensure the operations are in line with Lalmba’s vision and mission.
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
Jeff & Hillary JamesScars and Memories, Part 9 of Tembea Na Mimi
This is Part 8 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.
by Jeff James
Huddled under the branches of a thorn tree, cold rain pounding against my back, I witnessed courage in action and felt small and weak in comparison. But I am used to that; I’ve spent a lifetime watching my warrior brother excel in all tests of life, out in front, and taking action while others shiver.
It was day 9, and we were anticipating the end of our journey with mixed emotions. We had taken a break under a shade tree on a dirt road adjacent to a school. A crowd hovered around our menagerie, spectators of the greatest show in town. The school’s soccer field was flat and grassy and tempted us as a campsite. Plus, the waning afternoon light and the black and foreboding sky over Lake Victoria were clear signs we needed to make camp soon. Unfortunately, the school’s headmaster wasn’t around, and without his permission, we decided it best to leave the road in search of another open space to make camp. As we walked through farmland rain fell, gently at first, showering our dust and fatigue away. “This feels good,” I exclaimed to Amanda. She smiled and tittered “mmm, yeah” with a concerned gaze skyward.
I put my camera in my pack and zipped it, but then it began to rain harder so I opened my pack and wrapped my rain jacket tightly around my camera. I was hot from the day of hiking and didn’t mind getting wet, but I worried about my camera getting rain-damaged. Pictures are treasures for me, and I felt greatly enriched by this trip’s rewards. And this was Africa, after all; the rain will pass and the sun will return its usual permeating warmth, drying clothes and lifting spirits.
And then from the west came a wall of wind and water so mighty the camels panicked. They pulled against the guides, straining their ropes, slipping and falling down in torrents of mud. Our spectators, locals accustomed to lake storms, laughed at our pandemonium. But soon they too were cowed to the corners, seeking shelter under thorn bushes not suitable for a goat.
I followed Amanda beneath a slightly taller bunch of trees and hunched my back to the storm. The wind, icy and fierce, pushed at my neck and I shook deeply – shivering like never before. I looked left and saw Amanda and Thea, thin and blue through sheets of gray water, huddled in vain under a useless umbrella.
And then I looked out to the clearing and saw my brother, David, his hat pulled low, his mouth and eyes set with determination, his knife in one hand slashing the taut sisal rope that tethered two camels head to tail, pulling in opposing directions. As one camel fled, David brought the other to its knees and unburdened it of crates and saddle before sending it off to graze with a loving pat on the rear end.
Time passed slowly under that thorn tree; the rain and wind were unrelenting. I shivered, paralyzed by the cold, watching camel after camel get unloaded and released. Tarps unrolled and equipment stowed, trenches dug, tents erected and blown away and retrieved, only to be taken again. Eventually the large tent surrendered to the storm and lay flat in the mud, its poles broken in a discarded heap. And I remember thinking, as I looked out at David and the other brave warriors who stayed for the fight, that they did not look defeated nor hypothermic like I felt. In fact, they looked enthused, energized and warm, eager to keep fighting. They were having the time of their lives battling nature and crowing defiance into the wind.
I shuddered and then bounded out to help, hoping some activity would warm me up. But I was too late, the activity had come to a halt, the job was finished until the rain abated. And so there I stood in the clearing, stomping my feet in the mud to stay warm as heavy drops continued to fall. David, seeing my sorry state, pulled a thermal blanket from his pack and wrapped it around my shoulders, ushering me under a tarp where other heroes squatted, sharing body heat and waiting out the storm. And he threw his big arm around me and hugged me until the chill and the rain subsided. It was a brotherly moment like no other, a lesson in vulnerability and strength, a gesture of love that I’ll not soon forget.
When the rains subsided, we crawled out from beneath the tarp and began gathering survivors and gear. I worked extra hard to set up camp. I needed to warm up and I felt guilty for not carrying my weight and helping when the monsoon hit us. But what I’ve learned about groups and adventure challenges is that there are heroic moments for each person when a hidden strength is encountered, one not known before, tucked away somewhere behind the senses of panic and fear. And then there are those vulnerable moments, when fatigue and dehydration have muddled your thoughts with waves of angst and poor decisions. And so you must rely on others to help you survive. The right group, one unified in a common goal and with a noble cause, allows for heroes to rise and fall like the tides, and the vulnerable to be carried in their fragile moments.
David seemed to ride the hero wave more often, however. As I furiously erected my tent, trying to get the fly on before the rain returned, I looked around for David to see if he had a rock or something for pounding my tent stakes. There on the ground next to my tent was his pack, fully loaded, and his tent still unrolled. Where did he go? I then looked left and saw David and Michael hoisting Thea high into the air, like a patient on a bamboo stretcher. She was flat on her back being placed feet first into her tent, a cocoon of dry warmth. I had not seen her since under the thorn tree, looking frail and cold through layers of gray rain. But the cold had soaked in deeper and Thea was now in danger of hypothermia. Michael and David were saving her life. I flinched to help, but by the time I got there the job, once again, was done. Thea was tucked between a mound of sleeping bags and Michael was working on warming her feet and legs. David stood up, an unassuming superman, unshaven and in safari clothes, looked once around the camp, a leader scanning for loose ends, and seeing none, headed over to set up his tent. He was the last man standing.
The rain never returned, and because it’s Africa, the sun came out and warmed our spirits and dried our clothes. Later that afternoon, I bought a half pint of moonshine from a local brewer, “chang’aa” as it’s called, and we sipped it in a circle and sang songs with dozens of children and villagers, the same that laughed and mocked us as we battled nature earlier – some more valiantly than others. Now the laughter was different; it was no longer a mocking laugh at our comedy of errors, but rather we laughed communally – some celebrating survival, some reveling in triumph, others in marvel over God’s good humor and grace … and some of us may have just been a little tipsy.
Looking back it probably would have been best to wear my rain jacket rather than give it to my camera. It was a poor decision, sacrificing self for art. But if I had chosen differently, worn my jacket and, like the heroes of that afternoon, battled beasts and nature for the common good, I would have missed that vantage point of witnessing David from under the thorn tree. And I would have missed the life-saving gestures of love given by a brother, offering warmth where there was none. And I would have missed being able to sip moonshine, proudly knowing that my older brother is still my hero.
And I found myself wondering, as we walked to end poverty, if what communities really need is a unifying noble cause, a common goal, and a culture that allows heroes to rise and fall with the tides, providing care for the vulnerable in their weakest moments.
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
Jeff & Hillary JamesThe Rise and Fall of Heroes, Part 8 of 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
Jeff & Hillary James“I Love Hills” Part 7 of 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.
Jeff & Hillary JamesThe Relativity of Age, Part 6 of 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.
Jeff & Hillary JamesTime and Love, Part 5 of Tembea Na Mimi
The story of a little bright-eyed young boy from a remote village near Matoso, brings this crisis to life. His journey to Lalmba began with his grandmother’s desperate walk to our clinic, seeking help for her grandson’s alarming weight loss and lethargy, classic signs of severe malnutrition. Like many in the surrounding areas, his family depended on small-scale farming and fishing, which, in recent years, has become increasingly unreliable due to shifting weather patterns and over-fishing in the lake.
Moreover, both countries face the double burden of relying on imported food staples, such as cooking oil and fatty foods, while grappling with national inflation and the high cost of fuel. These economic pressures make it increasingly difficult for families to afford the essentials, pushing more households into food insecurity.
