Click to enlarge.

My eyes dart around the family garbage heap hoping for a flash of purple. The color is not important. What do you call faded, tattering purple anyway? Maybe the shiny emblem of Miss Piggy will give away their location. I don’t even like Miss Piggy. I like Animal, but I love my shoes. Shoes that my Mom is determined to throw away. What are a few holes when your feet are still sorta covered? I keep asking and crying and rescuing the shoes from the trash. She keeps ignoring. This time they made it to the heap.

My purple, Miss Piggy tennis shoes have VELCRO! Truth is, I hate shoes. All shoes. But in situations where I am required by law, or parentage, to not be barefoot–well, that’s why God gave me ugly, purple, non-Animal, VELCRO shoes.

My new Bata trainers are blue. I hate blue. It could be worse. They could be poo-brown and made of canvas. They also have laces… super long, stringy, knotty, drab, time-consuming shoe laces.

Please God, I know I shouldn’t complain about shoes ’cause I know not everyone here has them, but if I can’t find mine, will you have someone send me a pair from the States… with VELCRO! We will not be back there until 5th grade. FIFTH!! I can’t tie my shoes every day for the next two years. Amen.

PS – Can you please make it rain and end the drought? Amen.

Boy. This trash heap really does stink.
That’s it. Final rescue.
I’m going in… with my new shoes on my feet.

Mom is going to kill me.

Me, Kamuti and the tricycle. Oh, and that’s the head of Major… our retired police German Shepherd. (Pardon the photo quality.)

I first arrived in Kenya at the age of almost five months. At that time we lived in the Thika district which is populated predominately by the Kikuyu people, the largest tribal group in the country. This is where we lived until I was almost three years old… where English and Swahili were the official languages of the country, but where I was surrounded by Kikuyu speakers and spent a lot of my time with Kamuti, a man we employed to help with the yard work and various odd jobs. Kamuti was family. He was also of the Kamba tribe… and spoke Kikamba as well as Swahili and Kikuyu.

It was in this environment, somewhere around the age of two, when a rather unique form of language barrier manifested itself during the tricycle incident.

I had been in playing on my tricycle around the yard… up and down the Jacaranda lined driveway… probably all over based on the amount of energy I had as a kid… when I finally tired and went off to do something else. And, of course, I left my tricycle in the yard unattended. My mother called me to the porch and instructed me, in English, to get my tricycle and bring it up on the porch.

I stood in the yard staring at her with seeming defiance.

She repeated her command.
I stared.

She repeated it again.
I continued to stare.

It was then that she realized my stare was not defiant. It was blank. I had no idea what she was saying to me.

She switched languages, repeating her request again, this time in Swahili.
No reaction.

My father was called to the scene.

He told me, in Kikuyu, to bring my tricycle up onto the porch.
Still no recognition from me.

Finally, Kamuti was beckoned and he instructed me, in Kikamba, what my parents had been trying to tell me. It was then that I went to retrieve my tricycle and put it on the porch.

I had not been ignoring my parents or being defiant. I simply didn’t understand them because, while I had a full vocabulary, the words I knew were split across four separate languages. It is a phenomenon not uncommon among Third Culture Kids.

Shortly after this incident we returned to the United States where we remained until just before my sixth birthday. What smatterings of Kikamba and Kikuyu and Swahili I knew were lost to that brief period of Americanization. Even after returning to Kenya, I never did develop a fluency in Swahili beyond light banter.

It is a stark fact I now regret as an adult.

It was a quintessential cold, foggy Tigoni morning (which leads me to believe it was July or August) when J and I decided to venture into “The Hole” for the first time… much to the awe of our peers.

“The Hole” was a gap in the wall of the main building at Brackenhurst Conference Center. This particular structure was built into a hill and one outside wall was punctuated with rounded porticos that created a secret passage of sorts under the building. “The Hole” was located at the furthest point of the inclining passageway where one went from walking to crawling as the hill met the building and there was little light. There, at the very back was a gap in the brick, approximately one foot square.

The older kids used to spin tales about what was in “The Hole.” A favorite was the story of pirate bones buried under the building because the Indian Ocean used to reach all the way to Brackenhurst… 300+ miles farther inland than it is today. (I wonder if my older brother remembers this detail since he used to spin this tall tale!) There were a number of stories and each was specifically tailored to scare away us little kids.

J and I, however, both being of unsound six-year-old mind, fearless, and willing to take on anything, decided that we were going into “The Hole” to see what was there for ourselves. Too lazy to go looking for a flashlight (or afraid we would lose our nerve in the process) we entered through the portico and crawled our way back to the entrance. We lay there. Quietly. Hearts pounding, our heads were touching as we strained to see… using what little light was in the passage. “The Hole” was a dark abyss. We were unable to make out the most basic of shapes but we had made a decision and nothing was going to stop us. In I went. Feet first. I wiggled my skinny little body through the one foot opening and dropped several feet to the uneven bottom. John was right behind me.

What we found was a room littered with rocks, bricks and small boulders. The walls were brick and beginning to crumble slightly in spots. There were indications the space had been utilized many years in the past… perhaps as a wine cellar or some other sort of storage when the property was still a Colonial British hotel and golf course. What we didn’t find was pirate bones. Not one bone. No nests of giant poisonous spiders. No demons. No snakes. No ghosts of Maasai warriors. In truth, I think we were slightly disappointed.

Unable to see well and still too lazy to go to my house (about a half mile away) for a flashlight, we decided it would be a great idea to build a fire so we could see and be warm. Out we crawled and I stood lookout while John borrowed absconded with some firewood from outside a nearby cottage. Green wood. Green and wet. It was always green and wet. I don’t remember where we obtained matched, but we managed to come by a few of those as well. Back into “The Hole” we crawled where we lit our fire using green leaves and then proceeded to pile on green wood. Obviously we had no understanding of the concept that green wood doesn’t burn very well. Pretty soon, above our heads, we heard the quick pounding of running feet.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump … to the left.

Muffled voices of concern.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump … to the right.

Muffled voices on the fringe of panic.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump … back to the left.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump … back to the right.

It took a few minutes for reality to dawn on us as we looked upward and realized we could see traces of light above us as the cellar type space we currently occupied was directly below the tea room/lounge area and our “ceiling” was the tea room floor and our smoke, was filtering through the floorboards into the main building.

In a matter of seconds, with barely any hesitation, we bolted to the hole. With a jump and a scramble I was through. J was right behind me. Positive no one was yet aware of our presence, we progressed from crawl to shuffled crouch to full out run as we maneuvered down the passageway … convinced we would make our escape. It was then, in our all-too-brief moment of victory, that each of us lost footing as soon as we exited the portico. Only a parent has that kind of reflexes. J’s mom was waiting and had grabbed each one of us by an arm in our attempt to sprint into open air and keep going until we reached the hedge that served as one of our many hiding places.

We were busted and so were our little behinds. Personally, I found the adventure well worth it as “The Hole” was the one area of this, my childhood domain, which I had yet to explore.

Incidentally, we never did try to build a fire in “The Hole” again but it did become a favored hide out … and, in the grand tradition of our older siblings, we spread rumors of what might be down in there in order to frighten and intimidate those kids growing up behind us.

Today the one foot square opening to “The Hole” is filled in and the porticos are blocked preventing passage of curious little minds; but, J and I still laugh about the time we almost “burned” down the building with our smoke predominant fire of sizzling, sappy green wood.

Bracken Falls

The continent of Africa is dotted with magnificent waterfalls. Most notably, of course, is Victoria Falls which, quite unfortunately, I have never been to visit. Much less notable, but no less important in my life (and visited quite regularly), is the waterfall hidden in the valley near Brackenhurst Baptist Conference Center. It has no official name, at least not one of which I am aware, so I hereby christen the site “Bracken Falls” as I think it needs some sort of moniker.

When driving to Brackenhurst from the capital city of Nairobi one ascends from five thousand feet above sea level to seven thousand five hundred feet along Limuru Road where the conference center lies tucked into the rolling highland hills and tea fields. The old entrance is marked by two square whitewashed columns but, from there, the road twists down a steep incline, slips around the pond in the valley and winds its way back up the opposing incline where Brackenhurst rests sprawled across the hilltop. The pond is simply a resting point for the stream which flows into it from one end of the valley and flows out … under the road … at the opposite end. It is this waterway that creates Bracken Falls farther downstream in the thick of the forest.

From my earliest school age memories, I remember making weekly (often daily) pilgrimages to Bracken Falls. I would walk down the winding road that led into Brackenhurst and hang a sharp left onto the steep foot worn path that dropped through the forest and into the valley. Here the stream merely trickled. Part way back up the opposite valley wall I would turn right and maneuver across the forest floor parallel to the stream often pausing to pick up a stray porcupine quill. The sound of the waterfall revealed its existence before I plunged through a final obstacle of brush but it was always there … waiting for me. Small … falling only eight, maybe nine, feet. It was a refuge. I would take a book to read or a journal to write in while I sat. Sometimes I would just sit and listen to the falling water and the occasional overhead monkeys in the trees. I introduced many a new friend to what I felt was my own personal waterfall and there were times that it became more playground and less refuge, but I didn’t mind.

I wonder if my waterfall is still there or if civilization has crept down the valley and consumed it. I hope not. If it is still there, I hope that its presence has been passed down by those of us who loved Bracken Falls so that more children have a place in the forest where they can go to sit, read or play in this secret garden … this enchanted place of childhood.

This is the great tree (circa 1976) which eventually held the Swing of Peril… though a few years prior to its installation. The Millennium Falcon tree is just behind the photographer with one perfect branch in the foreground. Tease.

Yes, it was an actual playground… or, at least, the bare bones of one.

Located at Brackenhurst Conference Center, which doubled as my childhood domain, the playground was truly perfect… but not for the reasons you might assume. It was not perfect because of the swings. It was not perfect because of the merry-go-round. In fact, none of the equipment was worthy of elevating this small plot of earth to the level of perfection necessary for a child to reach optimum levels of playtime imaginings. No. It was the hill. The tiny hill and two enormous trees.

As the playground was nestled into a graduated hill, two sides of the square that made up the play area were level with the surrounding earth. The side with the steepest cut had been reinforced with a rock wall. The distance from top of wall to bottom was approximately ten feet (3 meters). The third and remaining wall needed little support as the earth was held in place by the roots of the aforementioned trees and a small stone stairwell in between.

The first tree was located at the highest point overlooking the small escarpment. This was not a climbing tree. In fact, there were no branches that could be reached, although someone … at some time … had managed to make it into that behemoth of nature in order to attach an astoundingly fat rope in order to create a swing. The seat of the swing was nothing more than a large knot in the rope. As far as I knew the rope had always been there. Yet, it was not easily reachable and entirely too heavy to be affected by wind. In order to swing on the rope, it took a smart kid finding a long branch in order to hook the swing and pull it to the top of the wall. Or, it took a really courageous –or stupid– child (like me) to back away from the ledge and then run full kilter while launching oneself into the air with amazing precision in order to grab the cable and allow the momentum of collision with said rope to swing you forward and then back onto safe ground. It did take great accuracy to pull this off or one faced a free fall to the playground floor which, though covered in thick grass, was not often cushioned enough to prevent mishap. While hours of enjoyment were spent on said swing … a fair number of broken bones had to be set for those who missed the jump or simply lost their grip. Thankfully, none of those bones were mine.

The second tree was, without a doubt, the perfect tree from roots to branches.

The labyrinthine root system twined down the smaller cliff and created, with a little childhood brain power, the most ideal city of caves and streets. We would spend hour upon hour reinforcing roadways and digging deeper tunnels and constructing mud abodes and building elaborate traps, yes … traps. Once completed we would play with our toy cars and G.I. Joe figures and Star Wars figures for the better part of an hour before the urge to destroy took over. Then, like Godzilla to Tokyo, we would drive our cars into every trap or bury our figures in mock landslides … only to begin rebuilding all that we had destroyed. Good times, I tell you. Good times!

While we created wonderful worlds in the root system, it was the branches of the tree where our imaginations truly took shape. The tree was huge and some of the branches resembled a ladder moving up the tree. Hidden in the leaves were pockets of growth where we could all make our own little individual offices or, more importantly, battle stations. This tree, more often than not, represented the Millennium Falcon in our own Star Wars galaxy and we would stay suspended in this made up world for an entire day … breaking only for meals … and then come back in the morning to do it all again. With me as Chewbacca (I was always the Wookie because I didn’t want to play a girl character.) and my closest friends as Luke, Han Solo and Princess Leia we took on the imaginary forces of the Dark Side and triumphed to battle another day … and another … and another.

No assembly required. No batteries. No playground equipment.
Just one fairly neglected playground, a small hill, two great trees, and … imagination!

Me with Kamuti… our gardener and all around “go to” guy, my sometimes nanny, and my bestest rafiki (friend).

In Kenya we always had a shamba (crop garden). Everyone did… and we shared. Families visiting from the coastal areas would arrive bearing gifts of mango, papaya or cashews. They left with bushels of maize (corn), zucchini, carrots, rhubarb and broccoli or jars of homemade boysenberry jelly. And more. Much more.

The soil in the highlands of Kenya is incredibly fertile. I once heard someone remark that you could spit on the ground and whatever you had eaten for lunch would grow. While that may sound very Jack & the Beanstalk… tell me, “Who is going to eat those monstrous white radishes and cabbages in the picture you see to the right?”

We had a sizeable shamba (to match the sizeable produce, perhaps) and a small orchard. The garden produced many vegetables all year due to the mild climate. It seemed to me, as a child, that we always had an abundance. Strolling through Sneaking in to raid the garden was one of my favorite pastimes… especially the berries. I can safely say I have attempted to eat just about every vegetable in its raw and unwashed natural state.

A rather substantial amount of time was also spent up the one avocado tree in our yard that refused to produce a single avocado. I read in that tree a lot. It also served as a most convenient vantage point for the rest of our yard… over the house… and down the driveway. I could watch the various comings and goings of those venturing to and fro and I have vivid memories of watching my mother fill her large woven basket with produce from the garden and stroll down our tree-lined driveway to share with whoever was in need… for there was far too much for us to consume alone.

Quite often I would still be up in the branches of that particular tree or, at the very least, in the yard with our dogs, when she returned… with items in her basket given by those she had blessed with her own generosity.

Neighbors caring for neighbors.
The village taking care of its own.
After all, someone has to love that much cabbage.

This photograph was taken at a Maasai tourist site. I have always been fascinated that my hair is the same color as the tufts on those spears.

During my sixth grade year, someone had the grand idea that a puppet act would enhance the mission’s ministry to the Maasai people. A group of us missionary kids was brought together and we began to learn songs and stories and the basics of puppetry. It was actually pretty darn fun. Then again, I was eleven. In the absence of a proper puppet stage, we performed behind a large sheet held up to shield us puppeteers. Seeing as church was being held under the sweeping horizontal branches of an Acacia tree anyway, performing behind a sheet was not such an odd thing…

… but the puppets were a definite novelty. So was I.

The Maasai, adults and children alike, had never seen puppets and they were fascinated by our performances. They wanted to inspect our arm puppets thoroughly and often asked to keep or, true to herdsmen form, buy them for a goat. The puppets didn’t mind such inquisitive behavior. Being made of cloth and other easily manipulated materials, puppets can endure quite a lot of prodding. They can also be put away and hidden from prying eyes and poking fingers… tucked into a bag or a trunk.

I couldn’t… be put away, that is.

At times I wished we could keep the puppets out. Once they were out of sight, well, I typically became the novelty of the day. Most Maasai Bomas (villages) had been visited by more than one mzungu (foreign person… usually Caucasian) by the early 1980s, but there was still varying amounts of excitement from Boma to Boma when we arrived and it only took a matter of moments after I emerged from a vehicle to have half the village around me… reaching for my hair or trying to hold my hand. On more than one occasion, I was the first person with platinum blonde hair, green eyes and pale skin the villagers had ever seen. I learned from a very young age they meant no offence by their intrusion into my personal space. They were curious. I was a novelty. My hair would be twirled between their fingers. My arms would be caressed. At any given time I would have the hands of five or six individuals trying to touch me; and then, inevitably, a warrior or two would try to buy me… offering cows as payment instead of goats.

As a younger child I learned to not show that I minded having so much curiosity thrust upon me… even though I did. Sometimes I desperately wanted to climb into the trunk of the car with the puppets. During my latter years of high school I learned to simply not mind at all. It was okay that I was more of a novelty than a machine generated puppet that likely had thousands of identical matches in the world.

I was…

unique,
special,
exceptional,
rare,
unequalled,

… and that was perfectly okay by me.

It still is.