Sleeping Alone

Sleeping lone in a new house in a strange land is new one for me. My to-be-housemate is still in Scotland, snuggled tight in his bed while visions of sugar plums dance in his head. No one has ever stayed here in this four bedroom, three bath house, perfumed with the taint of fresh concrete and enamel paint. It’s 1:30 at night. Spreading the netting over the bed, I’m too tired to care about ghosts or goblins. Using my “shake and shine” no-batteries flashlight, I flip of the bare bulb ceiling light and shove off to dreamland.

Seven hours later the cry of the Ibis jolts me awake. Tuesday, January 02, and no classes. This is shake-down day. No rush—I’ll just steal a few more winks. Soon it’s nine and I haul myself out of bed. A good sleep is the best cure for jetlag. Sleepily I switch on the water heater and go down to raid the brand new fridge. Milk and passion fruit juice – that’s nice. Open the brand new cupboard. A brand new set of dishes for four. Granola and Wheetabix and bread for the brand new toaster. Open a shrink wrapped set of brand new silverware. Do up the dishes in a brand new sink with a brand new bottle of detergent. You get the picture. I’ll wait another day to try out the brand new stove, coffee maker and teapot.

At 10 Gregg Okesson gives me the tour of campus. (He is a grandson of Cecil Petrie and his late wife Victoria who WCC supported since the 1960s until their retirement. Cecil grew up in Lowell and served in Tanzania when it was Tanganyika)

I try to remember the names of families in the faculty houses. Some are the same as ten years ago. But most are new to me. I am glad to learn that Scott has its largest and best-trained faculty ever with 70% nationals. The library building is under expansion, incorporating several seminar rooms and large multi-media lecture hall. Two faculty houses has been converted—one to a faculty office complex and the other to a medical clinic, now served by a staff member with some medical training short of MD.

Actually the national ministry of education on a certification visit asked, “how can you be a leading university and have no clinic and a shortage of faculty offices?” Scott Theological College, though only having 130 students is one of only three colleges in Kenya to have a full accreditation from the government. And it is the only Christian college in that number. Small, yes, but on the cutting edge. So thanks to our computer team for boosting them into the tech era—and to many other churches that have sent money to make good things happen here. Under Gregg’s deanship Scott is soon to become the first to dive into web-based education here in Kenya.

But we’ll talk about that later. Now it’s on to the scramble to get an updated syllabus ready in time for classes tomorrow. John Kimani adjusts the setting on my laptop so I can get email from home.

Students are straggling in. Warm “karibu” from those who were year two years ago, not to mention the many faculty and staff who are so welcoming. Makes me feel at home.

After supper at Karen and John Bonnell’s (more Wheaton graduates!) we head for home. “Forgot my torch,” says George. “Me, too,” says I. So we pick our way through the darkness the 300 yards. No sooner am I in the house when I remember I needed to borrow some AC/DC adapters and I head back, this time with my flashlight. What’s that sound? Sprinkles, too. Better grab my folding umbrella before I dash back to Bonnell’s.
The return trip this time gets me in the teeth of a gale pelting down big gum-drops of rain. What good is this doll-sized folding umbrella? Three short minutes across the green and I in—soaked in sneakers and slacks up to my waist!

But that’s why things are so green this year. Usually the November rains are over before Christmas. But not this season. Rain most days. Rained all day Christmas, I’m told. So there should be good crops. That means less hunger for the country poor who try to raise what they can. Poverty here is a big problem. It’s even worse in drier areas and in neighboring Tanzania where many eat once a day and not much at that. Gregg tells of visiting people in areas where the nearest road is many miles away. A village they lived seemed almost urban even though it was 6 hours to the nearest small city where you could actually buy stuff and visit a doctor.

Maybe if I go to the local golf course there will be grass on the “greens.” I kid you not. I played there once 10 years ago. You need caddy, not to carry your rented bag of 5 clubs, but to find your ball in the weeds and bushes. No mowing here except by the odd wandering cow or goat. And the cup is in the middle a square of dirt that is raked free of weeds—to some extent. After a few holes in the baking sun you are ready for the “19th” hole and something at least liquid even if not green.

Although in Kenya sometimes that is green, too.