Africa 2009 -Mugged by a Monkey- Part 3

SCENE OF THE CRIME- PATIO AT AMBOSELI
THE PRIME SUSPECT-LOOKING INNOCENT
SQUIRREL MONKEYS CAN BE SCARY-ESPECIALLY AT NIGHT!

“God, it’s still the middle of the night!”

As usual jet lag has me wide awake, brain humming at 5:00 AM.
Then I remember the young Masai warrior who showed us to our rooms last night.

“There is always fresh coffee on the verandah 24 hours per day and seven days in a week,” he proudly intoned.

“Just what your average Mzungu tourist needs to hear at 5 AM,” I think to myself.

Slipping into my standard issue African flip-flops, I quietly open the hut door and let myself out into the pitch black African night. Far away, a wildebeest coughs. Otherwise complete silence. Brandishing my outsized room key as a weapon, I flick the switch on my trusty pocket torch and stumble down the path to the main lodge.

“Ah, Heaven,” I exclaim. The hearty aroma of Kenya AA wafts from a steaming urn at one end of the patio. I remember what my grandfather used to say about Maxwell House back on the family farm in New Raymer, Colorado. “Hotter than the devil, blacker than hell and good to the last drop.”

I fill two earthen mugs with Kahawa moto (hot coffee), maziwa (cream) and sukari and head back up the path to surprise my hutmate. John passes me on the way back and inhales deeply.

“Fresh coffee on the verandah,” I say quietly, pointing toward the patio.

Back in the hut, Rena is not a happy camper, but she soon revives and starts packing a bag for the morning game drive. Binocs, camera, sunblock, water, hat, etc.
Suddenly a bloodcurdling scream issues from just outside our hut. Margaret and I burst from our respective rooms at the same time.

There’s John, drenched in coffee and shaking his fist at the rain gutter on our hut.
We look up to see a very small, very happy squirrel monkey stuffing pound cake into its mouth with both hands.

“I’ve been mugged by a monkey!” yells John. Choice but ineffectual epithets fly toward the little thief on the roof who shakes one fist and curses right back. Margaret and I are laughing really hard. No sympathy for poor John.

“Good thing lions don’t like pound cake, “ I chortle. “You might have been a goner.”

“I guess there’s no harm done,” admits John. “From now on I’ll eat my cake first, before I head back to the hut.”
DAKTARI

Africa 2009 - Amboseli = White Dust - Part II

KILIMANJARO
RENA RESTING IN OUR THATCHED HUT

OSTRICH FOR DINNER ANYONE?

'SWAMPY' THE ELEPHANT

SUNSET DE JOUR

ROOMKEYS - DOES SIZE COUNT??

White dust. That’s what Amboseli means in the local Maa language. As we go off road across the dried remains of Lake Amboseli, our van kicks up huge plumes of white dust. Lake Amboseli is 15 km long and fills with water in the rainy season. Now in the dry season it’s completely evaporated, leaving miles and miles of thick white dust. We pass Masai women wrapped in their colorful plaid blankets trudging patiently in this harsh environment. High in the background, floats the white cap of Kilimanjaro. It is positively surreal, tiny human figures in a lunar landscape. Where on earth can they possibly be going?

The white dust is deposited by glacial runoff from the snows of Kilimanjaro. Kilimanjaro is the highest mountain in Africa. It rises three and a half mile from the dusty Njaro plains. Its snow- covered volcanic peak is the second largest mountain in the solar system, only dwarfed by Olympus Mons on Mars for sheer geologic bulk.

“Wow! That’s some mountain !” enthuses John.

“So you say!” I demure. “It’s not even considered a mountain by the locals.”

“What do you mean- not a mountain?” John swallows the bait.

“Well, the name is a kind of an in-joke in Swahili.” I explain. “It’s a play on words. Lima means hill, the diminutive prefix ki- indicates it’s a small hill, and Njaro is the dust –filled plain we are driving across right now. Put it all together and you have ‘little hill on the prairie’ or Kilimanjaro.”

After the white dust of the lakebed, the Amboseli Serena lodge is an oasis.
Cute little monkeys frolic on the grounds as we are led to our individual bungalows. Each bungalow has a thatched roof, a hot shower and beautiful murals painted on the white-washed walls. How delightful.

We arrive late and take a curtailed game drive to see elephants belly-deep in swampy mud while the sun sets over the acacias. This sure makes up for a lot of white dust! The dining hall has murals too – John sits with his back to a wall decorated with a somewhat disconcerting mural featuring an ostrich’s derriere!

After dinner we sit on the verandah as groups of animals follow a game path from the watering hole to the savannah. The path passes not 40 yards from our table and floodlights from the hotel illuminate the most astonishing parade of antelope and zebra. Thompson’s gazelle, waterbuck, wildebeast, and zebra pass in a continuous, silent tableau – 20 or 30 animals at a time. A true “garden of eden” moment. We relax into primeval revery. East Africa – my 13th trip and always there is something new.

Returning to our rooms, we pick up our undeniably phallic room keys at the front desk.
“It would be hard to walk out of the hotel with this in your pocket,” I quip to John. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass the staff.”

“Or the animals,” John laughs.

Our fair lady wives just roll their eyes. But we’re in Africa and we’re having fun.
It’s rough! It’s dusty! It’s an adventure!
DAKTARI

Africa 2009- The Adventure Begins - Part 1

Margaret in need of a Shoehorn
Harriet & Irene at Kenyatta Airport- Sisters with Stuff!

We all made it to East Africa -hour 23 of our trip

One ton of Luggage in a two ton Truck

I am so psyched. First, of all to be blogging again after a long hiatus (nothing since May 7th). And secondly, to be writing about my favorite continent Africa. In the next series of blogs Rena and I will be touring Tanzania and Kenya searching for wild game, world peace and the Garden of Eden. We’ll be joined by our good friends and travel companions, Jon and Margaret, Lowell. (You may remember them from our expedition to Santorini last fall!) This adventure takes place June 8-22, 2009. Enjoy.
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Our trip to Africa begins 12 hours ahead of our scheduled departure with a little time zone confusion (i.e. jet lag). This is to be expected when traveling 1/3 of the way around the globe. But usually it occurs after a long jet flight and not before.

Anyway, our limo driver shows up at 6 AM and politely stands on his horn to alert the neighborhood that something is up. I have already gone to the office to tidy up my desk for a long and potentially dangerous journey to the wooley wilds of East Africa. (I always imagine I’ll feel better coming back to a clean desk. It never happens but one can only hope. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, etc.)

Rena runs downstairs in her jammies to confront the driver.
“We asked for the limo to come at 6 PM,” she expostulates.
“It doesn’t say that here – it says 6 AM,” the disgruntled driver replies waving a piece of paper.
“Well, that piece of paper is wrong,” Rena starts laughing. “Come back in 12 hours please.”
The interview ends with an unhappy limo driver trying to peel rubber while backing out of our driveway in a Dodge Caravan. Hopefully he will be more gruntled next time (if there is a next time). What if he doesn’t come back?? Oh no!

Our trip is off to a very early start! By the time I arrive home, Rena, Jon and Margaret are up and preparing a nice breakfast. The rising sun is shining on the back-deck overlooking the pool and the Powow River. The River provides a suitable lush jungle backdrop for our departure to Africa. A pair of Great Blue Herons adds to the primordial ambiance. I’ve always dreamed of having a remote controlled submarine in the shape of a full-size hippo that I could launch from my dock to patrol the river and surprise hikers and kayakers as they pass by. Now that’s what I call ambiance! Maybe I’ll get working on it after I retire.

The limo driver’s partner shows up at 6 PM sharp and we load the Caravan with 12 bags plus carry-ons and us. The luggage barely fits – poor Margaret is crammed in the back with all that stuff and may need a snorkel just to breathe.

The reason we have so much is that we’re traveling on missionary airline tickets which allow three 50 pound bags for each traveler. We are packing medical supplies, school supplies, gifts and lots of kids shoes donated by the Timberland Kids, Company. That’s 1200 plus pounds of passengers and luggage.
There is no question of peeling out in these circumstances. We barely chug up the hill to the main road!

“What the hey,” I ask rhetorically. “Did either Stanley or Livingston travel light? What’s good enough for Teddy Roosevelt is good enough for us.”


Check-in is a bear! I win the contest for the piece of luggage closest to the limit – 49.5 pounds for my black duffel with the school supplies.

The trip is roughly 8000 miles beginning with an overnight flight to London. In Heathrow’s brand new Terminal 5, we meet up with the rest of our expedition- eight more travelers with another 1350 pounds of luggage. There’s a tense moment as final boarding begins. The last member of our party, Kimberly Edwards, of Boulder, Colorado hasn’t arrived from Denver! Kimberly joins me just as the gate is closing. All aboard!

At last we’re on our way: a daytime flight across the Alps, the Mediterranean, the Sahara and the Rift Valley to Nairobi. For scenery, it’s my favorite flight of all. With luck we’ll see the glaciers shining in moonlight on 17,000 foot Mt. Kenya as we make our final approach. The next stop is Jomo Kenyatta Airport.

DAKTARI

Update on Norman - May 7, 2009

Thumbs up from Norman

Treading Water

Swimming

Fishing for the Big One

You may recall the story of Norman, who received open heart surgery for a valve replacement thanks to Dad's generosity. (See "Memories of Dad -part III") Here's the latest photos of Norman 8 months post surgery together with a report from Patti at Capstone Ministries.

"On the 23rd of December I put a mark on the wall inside our pantry to measure Norman's height. On the 25th of April I measured and marked again. Norman has grown 1 1/2 inches in 4 months!! Another boy who has been part of our family here since early 2002 is Bennard. "Beno" (a former street boy) is schooling in Mombasa and comes home during the school breaks. He has been home since early April. He and Norman have really bonded.

Beno loves to work in the yard, so he and I had a lot of "remodel" projects in the past few weeks. After class time Norman would help. He was able to carry large rocks, push the wheel barrow full of cow dung, he transplanted flowers and used the hoe. I'm amazed at his strength. He is such a happy boy now.

I hope Norman will participate in working his father's shamba the same way he helped here. I just pray that his father will work WITH him and not just send him out to do the work. Norman loved going out and helping my husband Dan with harvesting the moringa trees....his joy is in the fellowship which makes the work fun.

Norman's father Alex still needs counseling to come out of a dependancy attitude (so common to Kenya). When Alex was here last he told me that I had promised him many things. I had to clarify that when we talk about hopes and dreams, about what is possible,...these are not "promises". Capstone's purpose and vision is to restore the child back to the family and to help the family to function together ...NOT to promise them things.

Alex somehow had the impression that we would put in a well for him. I told him that if he needs a well then it's up to him to proceed, to do what he can and if he finds a roadblock then Capstone will consider how to assist...but that is not a promise. This is one of our greatest challenges and the reason that Dan and I often remain in the background.... when people see the mzungu (white people) they think there is a lot of money so automatically the hand of begging goes out. We are here to empower - first spiritually - and to assist physically if necessary but NOT to create a greater sense of dependancy.

Another cute story.....Norman decided he wanted to try his luck at catching a talapia (fish) from our pond. Beno set him up with a hook, a line and a piece of styrafoam for a bobber. In one day he caught 4 large talapia. Talk about a boy in heaven!! The next morning he went out early and caught another one....but then he realized he didn't ask permission to fish again so he threw it back and came and asked me if he could fish. I really laughed that he was so faithful and tried to undo his mistake. I think he finally caught the same fish again. Now it's time to restock the pond.

So, thats some of the inside info on Norman. Norman will return to the Doctor in early July for another ECHO on his heart. Then we'll see him again for the Capstone Camp in August. I envision Dan and I taking the "grandparent" role and having Norman visit during the school breaks. We won't go to visit him in his home because our presence will create problems among the villagers who see the white people coming. Home visits will be made by the Capstone staff. I've really grown to love this boy. I grow to love all our boys as I get to know them at the Transition Center but with Norman it has become a very special bond. I try to guard my heart and not become too attached but with Norman that was impossible...I'm attached."

Patty

(quoted from Patty Schmelzer's email with permission)

Memories of Dad V - Requiem

DAD IN HIS FAVORITE CAR -1967 JAGUAR XKE
WEDDING PHOTO 1946

FULL MILITARY HONORS -FEB 17, 2009

ONE GIANT LEAP FOR A MAJOR

Dad passed away on February 5, 2009 and was buried with full military honors at Fort Logan National Cemetary, Denver, Colorado on February 17, 2009
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Obituary for My Dad

Last night at 10:40 PM Manley Lafayette Bean, USAF Retired,
a reluctant warrior and former Arkansas farm-boy,
kicked the traces.

With Pegasus high overhead, the former Air Force major
relinquished his tight hold on the flying trapeze,
leaped to the horse's back,
grabbed a handful of celestial mane
and soared past the astonished moon to parts unknown.

At 1:26AM, his one and only son lights two candles.
"Bye Dad," says Mark with a tear.
“Safe journey and a happy landing."

At 3:30 AM the Angel of Transformation makes her rounds.
"Bye caterpillar," the Angel says softly
A new butterfly flutters
"Bye tadpole," the Angel says softly.
A tiny frog croaks.

At 4:00 AM the cries of newborn babies fill the skies.
The Angel smiles softly.
Feb 5,2009

.

.

Full Military Honors

A perfect “V” of geese flies close formation
Whipped by the fierce west wind.
White caps break upon the lake
Under a windswept sky.

The Angel of Surrender and Release
Stands to attention.
Eight mourners, eyes front,
Witness the careful folding of the flag.

My gaze transfixed upon a square of light.
A single withered leaf glowing in the sun.
I glance away. The airman gives the flag to Mom.
I look back. The withered leaf is gone.

I do not see the shovel
Nor hear the earth upon the casket lid.
The bugle sounds farewell.
Rifles ring out piercing my windswept heart.

I surrender, wings furled, dropping like a shot.
The flight of geese does not break rank.
They carry on.
Can I?
March 7, 2009 Daktari

Memories of Dad IV - Last Story

Dad and Me - February 2006
Me and my Folks

I’d like to share one last story about my Dad. And it really is the last story.

February 3, 2009

This morning, Mom, my sister Susan and I meet with the medical team. Dad has been hooked up to a BIPAP machine for breathing. This is a plastic bubble that fits over his face and is pressurized so that the lungs are blown open and oxygenation is better. Dad is struggling with it and I think he would be better without it. It’s a stressful meeting but eventually everyone agrees. The bubble should come off. If nothing else it will allow Dad to talk and let us know what he really wants us to do.

We re-group in Dad’s room and the nurse unhooks the BIPAP machine and takes off the bubble. She puts Dad on plain oxygen. Dad’s first words are, “What a relief!” Within minutes he is talking with Mom, Susan and me.

“Hey,” I think. “ Pulling the plug isn’t as sad as I thought. No question this is what Dad wants.”

We talk about the good old days. Dad gets reports on all the relatives – especially Sophie and Norman, the Kenyan boy with the new heart valves. We talk about the barbershop we used to go to and Dad remembers the barber’s name – Bill Wilkins.

Dad tells us all about the recent salmonella peanut butter scare, including where the manufacturing plant is located. Apparently, being in a coma is no excuse for missing out on the latest fear-mongering from CNN.

I tell him stupid jokes and we laugh together.
Two termites walk into a pub and one asks: ‘Is the bar tender here?’
How much did they pay Johnny Depp to have his ears pierced for “Pirates of the Caribbean”? A buccaneer.

My favorite image is when Susan and I leave the room to go out to lunch. We look back and see Mom and Dad holding hands and looking at each other. Wow!

By evening, it’s just me and my Dad in the hospital room. I call the nurse to help get him up in a chair.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” I ask.
“Ice cream,” Dad whispers and he winks at me conspiratorially.
I score a couple of vanilla Hoodsies from the fridge in the visitors lounge and we sit watching ‘Star Trek’ while he takes small bites of the ice cream. It’s doubly delicious because we have to keep hiding it from the nurses. He’s not supposed to have anything to eat. We feel like playful small boys pulling a fast one on the authorities.

Play and adventure – that’s how we show the God of Monkeys and Apes that we are still alive, even when our hearts are breaking, our wings are drooping and we’re about to lose our grip and fall off life’s trapeze. . .

February 4, 2009

It’s 10:40 PM and I am asleep, caught in the throes of an angry dream. In the dream I have to go somewhere, but my shoes are missing. I know exactly where I left them and they’re not there. Someone has stolen my shoes. I am so mad.

The phone rings and it’s my sister. Dad has taken a turn for the worse. He’s going fast.
I wake Mom but she doesn’t want to go to the hospital, so I go in alone.

Before getting in the car, I look up at the mountain sky, always so bright and clear. The great square of Pegasus is directly overhead and a brilliant half-moon is sailing in the sky beneath.

By the time I get to the hospital Dad is gone. It’s peaceful and OK. Hugs and sadness.
Then on the way back from the hospital, I remember the shoe dream.

“Dad and I always wore the same size – 8 ½ D,” I recall.
Suddenly a light-bulb fires off in my brain.
”Holy smokes,” I realize. “That guy who stole my shoes in the dream must have been Dad!”
“And he didn’t take just one. He took both of them.”
I start to laugh and tears fill my eyes, as I realize that wherever he is going, Dad needs two shoes size 8 ½ D. (Dad had his right leg amputated in a bus accident in 2004.)

The next day I tell Susan my shoe dream. She also had a dream the night Dad died.
My sister dreamed that she and Dad were walking down the street and she suddenly realized that he was walking on both legs! She was happy he wasn’t in a wheelchair in her dream.

“Did you happen to get a look at his shoes?” I ask.

“Not really,” Susan replies.

Take that, you God of Monkeys and Apes!
Manley, the one-legged shoe thief, strikes again.

Things I miss - Memories of Dad III

Norman Boarding Plane to Nairobi
Patty and Norman

Norman with his Dad Alex after Surgery

Things I Miss

I miss Dad’s words of wisdom and gentle advice. Like Mr. Rogers , he knew how to use a few words wisely. “Simpler is better,” as Mr. Rogers used to say.

I miss his kindness and courage , too. He cared about his family, his country, the work he did and the employees who worked for him. He cared a lot about politics and was happy to have lived to see Obama sworn in as President.

Dad even cared about people he never met and didn’t even know. Last August, after he had moved from his condo to the Frasier Meadows Nursing Home, I visited Dad in Boulder to see how things were going. He was busy getting the sink lowered, hooking his computer up to WiFi and organizing a hunger strike among his fellow inmates to get pot roast instead of steak tartare served at Sunday dinner.

We were sitting around in his room when he said, “You know, I would really like to do something in Africa.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Something that would help someone who needs a hand,” Dad replied. “I know your project in Kenya does a lot of good and I would like to help.”

“You could make a donation to one of our programs,” I offered. “Maybe electricity for the health center or books for the reading program.”

“That would be OK, I guess,” said Dad dubiously. “But I would really like to do something more personal. Maybe you can think of an individual who really needs my help.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I promised.

A little while after this conversation, I received an email from a friend and fellow Rotarian, Dan Schmelzer in Kisumu, Kenya. Dan and his wife Patty run a program to re-patriate street boys in Kisumu to their families of origin. A homeless street boy will stay at Dan and Patty’s for up to six months while his family is located and contact between parent and child is re-established. The family is enabled to take care of their returning son – financially, emotionally and spiritually. And finally the prodigal son returns home.

Norman was one of these boys. Dan had written because Norman needed a heart operation to replace two badly damaged heart valves. At age 12 Norman had been banished from his home by his father for ‘laziness’. Alex, Norman's father, complained that he would send the boy to school and Norman would never get there. He would tell him to sweep the compound at home and 10 minutes later Norman would be sitting under a tree with the job only half done. “I can’t have a son who is lazy and good for nothing,” said Norman’s Dad.

To Patty, Norman seemed genuinely sorry that he couldn’t do his Dad’s bidding.
“He says you’re lazy,” she told the boy.
“I’m not lazy. I’m just tired,” replied Norman. “I’m so tired that I can’t walk as far as the school. When I work in the compound I become out of breath and have to sit down.”

Patty and Dan took the boy to a doctor who did an X-ray of Norman’s chest. His heart was ‘as big as a soccer ball’ they were told. They took Norman and his father to Nairobi to see the most famous heart surgeon at Nairobi Hospital. They were told that Norman was in congestive heart failure and wouldn’t live a year without surgery to replace two of his four heart valves. The operation would cost $4,000 and that didn’t include the cost of the valves.

So Dan was emailing Rotarians that he knew in the U.S., to ask for money to give Norman a heart operation. So far, Rotarians in Denver had convinced St. Francis Hospital to donate two state-of-the-art bio-prosthetic heart valves for free. But they had only raised $500 of the money needed for the surgery. He was writing because, despite medications, Norman’s condition was worse. Norman needed an operation right away.

I called Dad on the phone and told him the situation.
“I can do that,” he said. “Where do I send the money.”

My sister arranged to wire transfer $3500 to Barclay’s Bank in Kenya. Norman, Alex and Patty flew to Nairobi. The operation was a success. Now Norman has a new heart and is enrolled in school. He can play soccer and enjoys reading. He only reads at a second grade level and he is very small for his age, but he is learning and growing rapidly.

Norman and Dad never met one another. I’m hoping to visit Norman when I travel to Kenya in June. I’m sure Dad will be happy when that moment comes. Thanks to my Dad’s ‘open hearted’ charity, a new life has opened up for Norman and his Dad. Norman has a new heart and Alex has a son who will never be lazy again.

In the Mishna Torah, the great doctor/rabbi, Maimonides describes eight levels of giving charity to others. At the highest level a man gives his own coat to another who he does not know and he who receives it does not know the one who has given him the coat.

When I think of my Dad, I will always remember that even while facing his own approaching illness and death, he was able to reach out and give the gift of life to someone he didn’t even know. Somewhere in Africa a small boy is running and a father is watching. Thanks to my Dad.
DAKTARI