The Kindness of Strangers

Several years ago, our younger son Nathan took a bike trip, along the Blue Ridge Parkway from Virginia to Koinonia in Georgia. Getting started he had some weather and mechanical issues, and there were a couple of panicked phone calls. But he was able to find help when he needed it , persevered, and ended up having a grand adventure. During his trip, when friends would ask how he was doing, my stock reply was, "He is learning what it is like to be totally dependent on the kindness of strangers."

Monday, after a tiring weekend on call at the hospital, I wanted to get away, and so thought it would be a good opportunity to go visit Hezron Soita (the retired hospital chaplain, a good friend from previous trips) at his shamba. I walked the half mile or so to the market, then hired a piki piki (a motorbike taxi); Hezron had assured me everyone knew where he lived, so just tell the taxi to take me to Pastor Soita's house. By the time we started out, the sky was looking ominous and it had started to sprinkle. After about four miles, the wind was picking up and it was clear that we were going to get a big storm (which is good because it hadn't rained in 9 days, and this is supposed to be the time of planting). The driver pulled over and told me we had arrived. I had been to his house years ago, and nothing looked familiar, but I also remembered that Hezron's house was a few hundred meters off the main road, so I assumed that I was left with a short walk. I paid him and he was off, and I asked directions at the little roadside hoteli where he had stopped . There ensued a big discussion which I couldn't understand, someone pointed, and I started off. But just then, the skies opened and they came running and gesticulating, motioning for me to come in out of the rain. A hoteli turns out not to be a place to stay, but just a mud hut with a couple of tables, some chairs, and a place to get a cup of tea. So I sat inside for most of an hour while the rain came down in torrents. Mostly it was too dark to see much, but there were 7 or 8 men, animated conversation in Bukusu, and frequent boisterous laughing, no doubt at my expense, but I was grateful to be dry, and to be able to speak with the one person who seemed to know some English, a high school student named Amos.

When the rain stopped, Amos offered (without my asking) to walk me to Hezron's, and as we started off, a couple of his older friends (or perhaps relatives) joined us. We walked and walked down various dirt paths, past mud houses with barefoot children; I had the distinct impression that it had been several years since a mzungu had passed by these parts. We passed by Amos's house, and he asked me to take a picture of him and his siblings. At another point, he stopped in the path and asked if we could trade "contact information" (mobile phone numbers), which seems to be the Kenyan equivalent to asking someone to be your Facebook friend. He was inpatient at how slow I was to enter his number, so I handed him my phone and had him put it in.

At one point, it briefly entered my mind that I had only the haziest idea of where I was, and I had no idea who these three young men were or where they were taking me. That thought was not so much frightening as a cause to marvel, that here I was, half way around the world, lost in inclement weather, and these three strangers had taken it upon themselves to help me find my way.

Eventually, after a 2 or 3 kilometers of walking through "the real Kenya", we came to Hezron's shamba. One of Amos's friends asked me if I would give them sodas; under the circumstances it seemed a reasonable request, but I had to explain that neither Hezron nor I had any soda. Hezron invited them into his very modest mud home, chatted with them for a while in Bukusu (I got the impression he didn't know them personally, but knew their families), and then sent them on their way, with many thanks.

After all this, I had just an hour to tour Hezron's crops, share a cup of tea, and meet his new wife (Hezron is 75, twice widowed, now married a third time; he still puts in several hours of work every day in his fields). Then, as darkness started to fall, Hezron wheeled out his motor bike and gave me a ride back to Lugulu.

Tonight I saw on my mobile phone that I had missed a call from Amos. I called him back, thanked him again for his help yesterday, and invited him to stop by the hospital so I could buy him the soda I owed him. Seems the least I can do.