To good to be true

After a superfluity of hugs and handshakes at church this morning, I am ready to go on my 8th excursion to Scott Theological College in Machakos, Kenya. Ellie came with me in 2005 and it was a disater for her. So I left her weeping inconsolably at the door as Jim and Zach Herrick whisked me away to Boston. She makes a huge sacrifice, stoking two wood stoves to keep the frost off the windows in Haverhill while I head south of the equator where summer sends the mercury to 80 degrees each day. But her new book is getting good reviews, so she can think of that with satisfaction. (Go to www.eleanorgustafson.com to read all about it.)
NorthWest Airlines gets me in to Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam at 8:05 AM, so I have some time to wander about the terminal before emplaning for Nairobi. I ask where Starbucks is so I’ll know where to meet April on the return flight in 3 weeks. I didn’t see Starbucks with my own eyes, but the friendly espresso girls tell me the direction. I’ve no time to go that far in the great spidery arms that these airports are. But at least I know it’s there.
Maybe I’ll have an ice cream, meanwhile. Ah –no, maybe not. $4 per scoop. And they will not fool me again. Some years ago when Ellie and I were here to visit her cousin and family (stationed in Europe with the U.S. Army) we got ice cream in Amsterdam. I kid you not—the scoops were the size of melon balls—you know the kind you use to scoop out cantaloupes back in the fifties? My cone with two scoops was gone in two bites. About the same amount of ice cream I shamelessly lick off the bottom of a decent size ice cream bowl. Sure, the stuff here is Haagen Daz. No better quality anywhere. But I could hardly TASTE it, let alone enjoy a close-your-eyes-and-smile tryst with whatever flavor it was. So today I just nod and wink at the kiosk and keep on trolling my carryon behind me.

Ah! Check “USA Today” for football scores. Too bad about Tony Dungee’s Colts getting sliced out of the post-season in sudden death overtime. But that’s what makes sports so popular. Anything can happen.
It’s now 9:30 A.M. and the sun is just coming over the horizon here. Where am I, the North Pole? No wonder Europe has fallen from its place in the heavens. Think how depressing this would be, year after year. Light is good! Sunlight is better! Then I recall that I am at the same latitude as Labrador.
Snoozing a lot en route, the trip over the Saraha desert goes by quickly. At Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Kenya the flight is on time and I am soon in the Visa line. Been here, done this before. But are these Kenyans are s..l..o..w. The nationals clear their queue quickly so I am waved over. Pay my crisp 50 USD and I have only baggage to handle now. (BTW, fellow bachelor-for-3-weeks George Mitchell came only with British pounds this year and had to go to exchange to get dollars. This in Kenya a former British colony and part of the Commonwealth!)
I grab a trolley (free use here) and look for bags. I canna’ believe it! There’s my ugly-as-sin red bag with all the Methuen shirts Ed Platz donated already on the carousel. And my black case next to it. This is to good to be true! Usually I have to wait until the last for my bags—you know, first on last off. Someone is smiling on me this trip! I grab them both, get waived through bag inspection (sigh of relief—they won’t hassle me over the new camera going to Deborah Brown’s friend Dalmas).
Look around for a familiar face or at least a sign with “Gustafson” on it. Bingo! There is Douglas Kaloki, the Scott driver, with his brother. We are loaded up and on the road in minutes, heading to Machakos.
The road is unbelievably BAD. It’s being re-built, so 60% is base—no hot top. Wash-board city. Any blood clots lingering in my legs from 15 hours of sitting in the Airbus are being shaken and pulverized. Almost feels good—almost.
By 11 we are dragging my bags into the cottage here. It’s lovely at night. The black, black sky shows stars an arm length away. The big dipper is low in the sky as I am in the southern hemisphere now. God is too good.
Then it happened. A reality check BIG TIME (for me, anyway.) I open my black bag and find strange contents! O NO!!!!!!!!!!! I should have checked it. I have another’s bag and mine is back at the airport! Bonnell’s are still up. I check with them. They call the airport—no luck with their cell phone. Joseph Ndebe’s lights are on—we’ll go there. He tries the airport, since we now know the owner’s identity from his Bible. He’s from TN and is here for a few weeks working with Baptist youth in Nairobi. At least he is not off on a safari to the boonies!
I’ll go back with Kaloki at 5 AM as he goes to fetch George Mitchell coming from Scotland. But—can I sleep with this uncertainty? I had been reading in a devotional about trusting God always, even when worry is almost excusable. So I relax as best I can to get a few hours of napping before I’m off over the washboard again in quest of MY STUFF!
Will our hero’s luggage be waiting at the airport?
To be continued….