Remembering Africa pt. 1

 Nairobi, Kenya- 2009

It’s amazing how a place can steal your heart and never give it back. To be honest I didn’t mean to give my heart away. I wasn’t expecting it. It just kind of happened. All I knew about Africa was all most people know—wars, starving children, and HIV. Yet, for as long as I can remember I had wanted to go. I remember reading “Zoo Books” as a young boy at the library. I wanted to visit the lions and giraffes so bad. At that point, I probably didn’t understand Africa was continent and not a country. It didn’t make any difference to me. I just wanted to go. It would be many years until that dream was fulfilled. I had no idea how much that continent would change me and the profound role it would play in maturing me as a young man.

I was 18 and it was my freshman year in college. The church I was attending at the time announced a mission trip to Kenya, among other countries, and I knew I had to go. I had never been overseas (Cancun, Mexico on vacation doesn’t count) and I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I just knew I had to go. So I signed up.

Six months later and there I was on a British Airways flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi. It was at that point that I started to get scared. Three weeks in Africa. The questions began to overwhelm me. Could I handle it? What if I got homesick? What if I couldn't eat the food? What if something happened to my family while I was gone? My palms began to sweat as the reality of what I was doing began to hit me. All of the sudden the stale, recycled airplane air didn’t seem to be giving me the oxygen I required. I forced my self to relax as I unclipped my seat belt in spite of the sign illuminated just inches from my head.

I must have drifted off to sleep. I awoke with a jolt as the tires kissed the runway, lifted off briefly, and then settled back down. Our team was processed through customs without incident. I remember there was some sort of disease scare going on at the time, bird flu maybe, which made our entrance into the country far longer than necessary. I didn’t know this at the time, but Africa doesn’t run on Western time. Things tend to happen when they happen. We grabbed our bags and headed outside.

As I walked out of the airport my senses were assaulted with every form of stimuli imaginable. All were new and all were overwhelming. A mix of English, Swahili, and Kikuyu combined to form a dull roar in my ears as I struggled to take in my new surroundings. Beads of perspiration immediately appeared on my brow and upper lip in the sticky equatorial air. And that smell. They say smell is the sense that is most closely tied to memory. I believe it. That’s what I remember most. Only those who have been privileged enough to step foot on the ‘dark continent’ can understand or appreciate the smell of Africa. It is unlike anything I have ever smelled. To this day, there are times when I will catch a whiff of a similar scent and I am immediately transported back to the rich red soil of that beautiful continent.

It took us longer than it should have to find our local contact and load the bus. 12 pieces of luggage, one guitar, one keyboard, and 8 people later and we were off. We were headed to Moi’s Bridge in the Northwestern part of the country, an 8-hour drive. The adventure had only just begun.