This is my last day before setting off, over the mountainous roads to the Maasai village of Kilgoris.   Kilgoris is near the Uganda border and is a strenuous trip of ten or more hours, depending on how many times you are stopped on the road by the police to check if the  Manitoo, the small van, is safe.  I stir in bed, remembering my grandmother waiting for me.  Fear rises like bees.  I’m afraid I will die on this trip, either by flying off a mountain cliff  or  suffocation inside the van filled with people, boxes, suitcases, packages, and chickens. I won’t even be able to see out a window because you have to pay for a window seat in advance and they are all taken.

I lament my fate over dinner long enough for Sr. Freda to begin humming the Eloisa and the bucket song and I realize I have once again become the leaky bucket.  She looks at me like Jesus might have looked at the coin-jiggling sinners he threw out of church,  as she tries to explain that the small buses aren’t so bad.  All the while David, my missionary friend keeps poking my side with his elbow and whispering, “Oh, the smells.   Chickens and dirty feet and body odor.  You can’t even open a window.”  His whispering got me no closer to resolving my fears.  I felt stumped.  I kept saying, “I think it’ll be alright,” with little conviction in my voice and I have to admit a bit of a whine.

When I’m in a strange situation, or worried, I tend to talk too much to cover up my shy nervousness.   I know when I’m out of control when I begin to talk about how my parents were too dissimilar to have married but I’m unable to stop myself.  “My father was a handsome Southern Italian, who wasn’t suppose to marry a Northern Italian but southern or not he couldn’t resist my blonde haired, blue eyed Northern Italian mother.”

“Really,” David is nice enough to interject, but I take no heed of him and continue talking even faster.

“Yes, really.  She, along with her sisters are uppity about their northern Italian blood, making sure we children grew up knowing that the Northern Italian was the pure Italian and spoke the true language, not the dialect of those Sicilians, or Venetians that no one could understand.”

“It’s similar with tribes here,” Sr. Freda adds.  It would have been interesting to hear what she had to say about tribal tensions, but no, I keep on talking.

“The north could afford to be smug since it  had never been invaded by an army, so the Northern Italians didn’t have Spanish or Turkish blood.  My father had thick, straight, black hair and was always trying to escape his ethnic background and class to prove to my mother and the world that they weren’t superior.

I think everyone is glad dinner is over and I had stopped talking, myself included.

Kucca the cook had been ignoring us as he cleared the table.  It wasn’t noticeable (since he ignored everyone) until he shouted “hallelujah!”  At the last possible moment I am saved for he had a friend that was driving to the village the next morning and I could travel with him.  I think he purposely waited to give the good news, enjoying my talking on and on for he gives me a wicked smile when I thank him.

The next morning I set out for the village of Kilgoris, where I would be sleeping in a Maasai hut and living without running water, a bathroom or any electricity.  It was only six years ago that the first missionaries were brave enough to venture into the village for tales that the Maasai  had poison arrows and bone pierced lips were still believed.   I lumber out of bed at 5 am, trailing my yards of mosquito netting like an old prom dress to kiss and hug Sr. Freda and my friend David who had gotten up at this ungodly hour to see me off.  Kucca made up for enjoying last nights embarrassment by fixing me breakfast in my cabin, telling me I should have my last meal in my own little home.

Tears cloud my eyes as I hug Sr. Freda.   She hustles me into the car.  It is a SUV and I feel guilty to be driven in this big car but have only time to settle the five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and tea cakes and the pile of bananas I brought for the trip before the man rev’s the engine.   I had argued with Sr. Freda that I didn’t need one of her nurses to make this long trip as my chaperone, that the man himself would be fine.   Women did not travel with a man alone that wasn’t a relative and at that moment, as I’m reassuring Sr. Freda that I will be alright, the man puts the car into gear and we squeal out the gate.   He gives me a crooked smile and looks me over as if I am something he would like to have for dessert after he devours all the peanut butter sandwiches and food and for moment I think Sr. Freda might have been right.    But I choose to ignore his look and promptly settle myself, hands neatly folded on my lap, legs crossed, back straight, into the car which smells of urine.   I could see I might have to squat behind a tree somewhere to go to the bathroom on this long, laborious trip and as I look back at the waving hands of my friends and the big palm trees waving in the morning light, the tears that had clouded my eyes, spill over, knowing I will probably never see Sr. Freda, David or Kucca again.