Be Not Afraid…

As a Christian traditional chorus "Be not afraid… I go before you always…" echoed in the near distant, I traced the awful out of rhythm noise to a man walking along the white sandy beaches of Watamu. The man was singing loudly, wildly and totally out of tune without any inhibitions entranced with the spiritual meanings of the lyrics. Sadly enough he was my classmate, a stubborn man, a man of no shame and a man that I will call Jimmy. Jimmy was from a small Tanzanian town called Arusha. He like many of my other classmates who ventured out here in the eastern coast of Kenya to immerse ourselves in the study of marine life. Although Jimmy could not swim, he believed that he could. Despite the teacher and many others who have politely mentioned about his inability to float, he continually tried prove that he could.

One hot afternoon, the class was scheduled to do a snorkeling lab a few miles off the reef. Despite his lack of bouyancy, he had the self-confidence of a whale he could swim. As the outboard engines of our boats died, one by one we entered the water. Luckily for Jimmy he decided to go swimming with a floatation device. As the afternoon wore on, we decided to practice our diving techniques from the boat's bow. Like penguins, we lined up plunged into the deep blue waters. Jimmy tried to hold off the temptation of leaping with acrobatic gusto, but stupidity got the best of him. As he stood up and walked toward the boat's diving platform, he snuggly tucked a life-saver floatation device around him. "Jimmy! What are you doing?!" yelled our teacher floating effortless in the sea. "Don't …" as the words could not fly fast enough; he took a deep breath and took the leap of faith. While in mid-air he placed is left hand over his nose and raised his right arm as high as he could. SPLASH!

The large surface area of the floatation device caused a gigantic displacement of water. Unfortunately the device was designed to float and Jimmy was not. The impact of the Jimmy's fall was so hard that he went right through the device and into the depth of the Indian Ocean. As his fingers, went under, we immediately knew that he was in trouble. Divers jumped from all sides of the boat hoping to capture Jimmy's location, but fortunately his head bobbed for air. He tried to inhale, but instead he gulped a mouthful of water. After a few head bobs and a couple of gallons of salt water, we finally rescued him from the perils of the deep. As he sat quietly on the way back to camp, he spoke to thank everyone that assisted his rescue. Finally he ended this momentous day "Man, I was afraid!".

At the Crossroads

Nixon what? Watergate Scandal when? With every detailed account of American History quickly evaporated into thin air, I painfully realized that high school was not my cup of tea. After all I was too pre-occupied dazed in a dream of heroic proportions. I was the all round tough guy breaking limbs, shooting futuristic guns and dodging well aimed bullets. As slugs zinged past me, I dove, rolled and fired the epic shot killing the evil maniacal mad man and saving the damsel in distress. When the last spent cartridge fell towards the ground in slow motion, I was rudely woken-up by the hall bell. Alas I was done. Today the ever annoying sound of the school bell signified the end of a milestone. I was finally done with high school! Now scores of literary works and unsolvable mathematical equations are all behind me. My life is now an open book ready to be written and I was the poet, author and architect. No more tyrannical math teacher telling me that I could not mix apples and oranges. No more wannabe poet taunting me to express my deepest thoughts on a John Milton sonnet. No more… I was ready to be my own man. So here I go - chapter one…chirp chirp. As the blank pages of my life stared at me with blinding emptiness, my soul was gripped with fear. With a calming breath, I was able to psyche myself into a deep meditative trance in hopes of achieving a sense of direction. Ohmmmmmmmm…..zzzzzzz…. now wait a minute? I thought I killed that bad guy!

Question after question slowly filed into my tiny cranial cavity. Inundated with unanswerable questions, I felt like a contestant in a TV show Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Where are my life lines? Do I get at least a 50/50? Now faced with a monstrous question - is what's next? How is life going to be like without skipping my 3^rd period Algebra class for a smoke? How am I going achieve subliminal bliss without a Shakespearean play lulling me to a dreamy state? What was to become of me? I was at that great divide between the past and future. I was at the crossroads.

Pathologically the word confusion is best described as one's loss of orientation. There I was the best model for this mystified state of mind. Overwhelmed by my perplexities, I struggled to set my compass at the right direction. I was like a ship without a captain a drift in a treacherous sea of decisions. While floating aimlessly in turbid waters, my parents seeded a blasphemous thought - college.

College! Why infamy! The emblem of higher education was a pen overpowering the sword. College was place of holy reverence. It was a sanctuary for intellectuals, philosophers and masters of the literary arts. They are the few chosen ones that have attained the unattainable academic rankings. They are the so-called warriors of corruptible knowledge and twistable truths. They are the holy men in quest of an answer to constant ever nagging nonexistent question. They are purest most righteous form of knighthood in search for a lactose substitute. They are the academicians.

I was different. I belonged to a different breed of men. Free spirited and idealistic boneheads! I was in rage by the absurd of the notion of bounding such a free sprit to scores of historical manuscripts, artful literary lines and to the abstract mathematical problems. I was a victim of the game theory. Indeed a victim of a primeval ethological survival choice - flight or fight.

Ignorantly I agreed to set my unholy ass into the most holy and revered place - university. To many it was a bookworm's utopia, but for me it was a four-year jail sentence bounded by scores textbooks, pages scientific mambo jambo, and notes of who did what when. To my dismay, I was presented with another challenge - to select a field of study! Ok this should be simple… I failed high school Accounting, English Literature, Mathematics, etc… yeah right! Conjuring my limited mental prowess, I deliberated over the numerous academic specialties. After weighing all the pros and cons of each major field of study, I finally narrowed it to Zoology? Why Zoology? The study of wildlife biology was an innate part of me. I was a naturalist, an amateur snake handler and a man of the wilderness. Why fight against my destiny?

Not knowing how I was going to perform in a university setting, I decided to give it a try. I enrolled in an off semester course called Introduction to Marine Biology. The course was taught at a remote off-campus marine station located in Watamu, Kenya (about 1000 kilometers from the main campus). Watamu is a typical small peaceful and serene African village populated largely by Muslim Swahili or Muswahili. The first Arabic colonist landed in Watamu in the early 17^th century and they introduced the slave trade, spice trail and Islam to the region. A testament to this foreign settlement is the ruins of Gede/Gedi. Gede/Gedi was 18 hectare city that mysteriously vanished into the annals of history. The town was complete with several Mosques, homes, mullah graves and 180 foot deep fresh water well. Many archeologists today still speculate and theorize the enigmatic disappearance of this 17^th century Arabic civilization. Besides Watamu's rich history, the locale is a popular tourist hot spot with its miles of pearly white sandy beaches and clear turquoise water. For naturalists, Watamu has numerous avian and marine sanctuaries making it the most ideal place to study marine biology.

The big day was finally here. Our departure time was at 9:00 am sharp. Tick tick… ok around 9:00 am… tick tick 2:30ish in the afternoon... tick tick get off my back! We are leaving sometime today! This waiting game was an all too common occurrence during my undergraduate program. Finally a monstrous 90-seater bus ran by the Akamba Express pulled through the university gates and parked just outside the department. We had "rented" a few seats from this bus company. Since the bus was half-booked the driver decided to fill the remaining seats with public commuters maximizing profit. Due to the driver's aggressive business sense, he decided to make numerous stops before picking our class - hence the eight hour delay.

Finally the last remaining boxes of food and equipment were packed into the bus! We were out of here! My high spirits were let down by a new twist brewing at the driver seat. Instead of driving towards the capital - Nairobi, the driver was instructed to take a "short" detour to pick-up more passengers from a small Lake Victoria town called Kisumu. This was about a little over two hours away …THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION!

At around 7:00ish pm, the bus liner carefully pulled into a dingy dirty Akamaba Express Office parking lot at Dewinton Street in downtown Kisumu. Kisumu is the third largest city in Kenya and the capital of Nyanza Province nestled at the murky edges of Lake Vitoria. Lake Victoria also known as Ukerewe or Nalubaale is third largest lake in the world. This small lake shore community is home to indigenous Nilotic tribesmen called the Luo.

Before the monstrous vehicle could come to a complete stop, a group of local entrepreneurs armed with roasted corn, boiled eggs, fresh fruits and baked peanuts stormed the bus eager to sell their goodies. In Kenya (like in many third world countries) these tradesmen satisfy the numerous hungry and starved travelers looking for a quick and tasty bite to eat while on the road. Not long after the bus doors flung open a sudden deluge of salesmen hastily rushed the single narrow isle with all their wares. As I pulled myself from a slouched position, I could barely see outlines of dimly lit tin shacks selling different merchandise called kiosks. Upon opening window a gust of strong aromatic smoke carried its heavenly scent that filled the entire cabin of the bus. Smells of freshly fried fish (samaki), deep fried unsweetened donuts called mandazi, and moist succulent grilled meat (nyama choma). I could not resist the temptation to get off my seat and take a bite of this simple lakeside bus station's cuisine.

Long lines of charcoal grills (jiko) offer a gastronomic experience from fresh corn, meat on a stick, fish, and moist succulent meat on the grill. Above the commotion both young and old chefs show off their culinary skills while enticing each passerby with mouth watering goodness. As I moved towards the end of the grill parade, a gentleman dressed in a plaid shirt violently picked up a slab of red sizzling meat and slammed back into the open flames! The force of falling slab meat generated searing sweet-smelling flames. I quickly recognized the carcass on the grill - goat (mbuzi) meat. As the slab of prime rib and meat sizzled in the hot flames, it kicked up some aromatic sensations which were totally irresistible! I ordered about a pound of mouth-watering ribs, some oily soggy fries (they call them chips), mandazi, and a Coke. Armed with my bounty, I headed up back to feast on my food while waiting for the bus to head to the capital.

Before reaching Nairobi we had to stop at a small Rift Valley town called Nakuru. Nakuru Township is a melting pot of many cultures. Although the town is build on Masai land, there are numerous other tribes, Indians, and Brits that call this Rift Valley community home. The bus slowly pulled into an open gas station at around 2:00 am in the morning. To my surprise all the kiosks were still open on this ungodly hour of the night. When the bus came to a complete halt, the somber vibe of the station suddenly changed to a pulsating party rhythm! Lingala music began blasting in the background, wood stoves are being stoked and flamboyant cooks start their magic. Samosas yum! Kenyan samosas are different that Indian samosas. Kenyan samosas have a thinner dough wrapping and are stuffed to the brim with well season ground beef. Then they are deep fried until their skins turn a golden heavenly brown. Oh my … Farmer's Choice sausages are the best! These fat short delights are well season and deep fried until the casing becomes nice and crispy. These delicious bites simply burst in your mouth sending you in a gastronomic high! So without any hesitation I placed an order for four samosas, four sausages, salad (coleslaw with no mayonnaise, just lemon, salt and black pepper) and a cup of coffee. Stuffed to the max, I passed out!

Finally we arrived in Nairobi in the wee hours of the morning. The bus navigated the city's empty streets to the station where a few more passengers eagerly awaited its arrival. As the waiting passengers single filed into the bus, the passenger count increased steadily. The 90-seater bus gradually increased to a staggering 110-person container!

African sunrises are the best, especially when heading east. The typical bright orange hue horizon slowly fades away to light baby blue. Short flat-top Acacia trees cast silhouette shadows giving the all presences – I am Africa. An occasional outlined rocky outcrop juts out of the earth from a distant. These massive geographic topological statues are symbols of Kenya's dynamic volcanic prehistory. Just off the beaten path, school children running in yellow fluorescent shirts and burnt umber shaded shorts. As they merrily greeted each and every vehicle that zipped past them, their smiles convey a carefree spirit full of vibrant gusto. It is a life without the technicalities and complicated burdens that we in the western hemisphere cannot live without. Life here is simple and the most exciting episode is to see foreigner empty out his bladder by nearby Acacia brush. It would be impossible of me to give an honest portrayal the moment. You would have to be there to experience it, to live it, to feel it.

A few hours later the bus slowly turned onto a small gas station and eatery at Voi. Voi is a small arid farming community that cultivates sisal and pineapples. The sweet-smelling blends of coffee, sausages, mandazis, eggs and samosas filled the air. Many coffee connoisseurs agree that Kenyan coffee is one of the best in the world. Its slow dark roasted sweet aromatic blends are so intoxicating! Due to Kenya's British influence, most Kenyans love their coffee café au lait. This potent brew will not only tickle your taste buds, but give you enough energy to last the day.

As we drove closer to the coast, monstrous baobab trees gave way to swaying coconut and mango trees. Finally we arrived at our destination more than 16 hours eating and sitting in a bus. Once we unpacked and settled in, I sat on a nearby sandy berm facing the Indian Ocean. Slowly in the distant horizon the finally cast the sun's last rays of light signifying the day's end and the beginning of my new life. As dusk turned into night the sound squawking crows faded away to the tranquil sounds of Watamu nights. The constant gurgling waves, leaves thrashing in the wind and the occasional titer tatter of ghost crabs on the sandy beach acoustically performed their nightly chorus. It was peace. I was at peace.

Lost in Kenya

Lost is defined as a macabre predicament of helplessness, end of life and loss of something meaningful. Despite my blog title's morbid definition, I hope to capture its very antonym - hope, life and the meaning of living. The title does not define my meaningless wanderings in sub-Saharan Africa, but my wonderful experiences captured in time. To me being lost in Kenya is walking the uncharted path in search for definition, hope, and life.

The Origins of Bwana Nyoka

It is hard not to notice a foreigner trotting around the dusty byways of a small East African village while navigating around small mud huts, excited chattering children and the friendly smiles. As I turned and walked towards the interior of the settlement, I had accumulated a great number of fans scuttling behind me following my every move and wildly expressing their opinions about this mzungu (White Man). According to the U.S. Census Bureau I fall under the classification of a Pacific Islander, but in most major African towns and cities I would be normally referred to as China, Bruce Lee, or Jackie Chan. Fortunately for me, the influence of a three year old Kung Fu blockbuster movie or products that say “Made in China” has not crept into this tiny dusty village. Yes, I was mercifully spared from being named after an Asian country or a Chinese action hero.

I was led to a small crudely fenced compound where a tall, squeaky clean lanky Mswahili man emerged from the dark caverns of his hut. While he fitted on his kofia and his Bata slippers,I could not help notice his humility as the leader of this great community. As soon as all the customary greetings were made we settled under a mango tree to discuss the true purpose of my expedition. I explained in extremely broken Kiswahili that I was looking for snakes. With jaws dropping and pupils dilating, he gasped while uttering “NYOKA?!” (Nyoka being the Kiswahili word for snakes). “Yes”, I replied back. Then in good Queen’s English he spoke the words that forever seared my nickname, “There are only two types of people that look for snakes, a witch or a mad man. Clearly you are not a witch then you must be a mad man, Bwana Nyoka” (Bwana Nyoka is a Kenyan nickname - Mr. Snake or Snake Man). After a short loud laugh, my adoring fans heard these wise words uttered by their leader, a symphonic chorus echoed through the masses “Bwana Nyoka”. As children giggled in the background, women politely smiled while mentioning my given name, and old wise men nodded in uniform agreement to my new tribal name. I felt sick to my stomach. How in the world can someone so wise, so revered compare me to a snake?

A beast traditionally depicted as a symbol of evil and by African traditional folklore as the representation of death. What just happened here? Was I the angel of death incarnate in the body of this mzungu in the middle of this dusty village? A few cups of tea later we said our parting words and as I retraced my steps back through the path, I pondered over the name and why? While trudging my feet in the warm dirt and feeling like a villain from an action movie, little did I know on that dusty path that this seemingly uneventful naming ceremony would forever change the course of my life. Now as I write, I am beginning to truly understanding the deeper meaning of my given nickname, Bwana Nyoka. To me, the name means the embracement of life … my life. The name has led me to places where I only dreamed of, adventures of many life times and to the many friends that I have made. Yes, there is definitely something magical in the name, Bwana Nyoka.

A Book's Cover

Have you ever heard the saying “Do not judge a book by its cover”? If you have, you will definitely understand me. It is very common to stereotype a “computer guy”. The very mention of the word “NERD” sends your mind on an epic trance trying to create a mental characterization. You are trying to be rational in finding an abstraction into the definition of the quintessential nerd. To many a nerd is a man fueled by gallons of fizzled-out Mountain Dew, three-day old pizzas and unhealthy love affair with his PC. Unfortunately Hollywood and Bill Gates pretty much defined the look, behavior and smell of the nerd culture. It does not mean that all computing professionals follow this type of fashion sense and life style. Fortunately for me I am a statistical outlier. I do not fall within the boundaries of this generic genre of nerd-hood. Yes, computing to me is a passion, a career and a life source, but it is not a life style. I did not start my career in finding the meaning of life through beautiful patterns of the zeros and ones, but in a testosterone driven world of the African wildlife. Yes it all began in the living and breathing great outdoors!

Most of my students find it quite amusing when I tell them that I use to work with African venomous snakes. It’s a pretty pleasant experience to see their whimsical and doubting facial expressions when I mention the word - SNAKES! Yep the creature deem by Biblical authors as a metaphor for the “Evil One”. To medical practitioners snakes are causative agents of mortality and morbidity. To the rest of you, they are cold calculated killers that crawled out of a Stephen King horror flick. Yes snakes!

Hang on… before you start judging me; let me start from the beginning. It was just a few minutes after sunset and the darkness began enveloped our little VW Combi van as it maneuvered through a small dusty jungle road to an undisclosed location (meaning I had no clue where I was). Finally as the van’s engine came to a complete halt, a sense of serenity completely overpowered the constant drone of the engine. The occasional rumble of my churning tummy interrupted the tranquil night. As I stepped out of the van it felt like I walked into a dark closet blind folded or in this case 20 kilometers from the capital of Uganda - Kampala. My parents accepted the call to be missionary lectures in a small Adventist college in the middle of nowhere. I was nine, naïve, scared stupid and most of all eager to get some dinner.

I see Uganda was the birthplace of affinity for the African wildlife. Growing-up African had its perks (aside from no electricity, running water or a TV channel) I kept a diversity of pets from 2 civet cats, 3 monkeys, 3 dogs, 15 domestic cats, 4 dik diks (a type of antelope), a bush baby, crowned cranes and other crawlies to keep me busy and out of trouble. When I reach my teenage years our family moved to the neighboring Kenya to teach in another mission school an hour from Eldoret Township. On one of our family outings to the eastern coast of Kenya, I met James Ashe, the founder and owner of Bio-Ken (a snake farm) who was monumental in changing course of my life. I was captivated when Mr. Ashe (who used to be a British Geologist in the 1950’s in search for Uranium) when he captured a black mamba (one of Africa’s deadliest snakes) with ease. As he talked about conservation and why there was a need to conserve these animals, I immediately knew what I wanted to do when I grew up! I wanted to be a herpetologist!

I took this dream to heart and pursued a four year degree in Zoology in Kenya (close to my snakes). While studying in Kenya, a handful of students and I started a small snake collection to promote local conservation of these animals. Our small live collection grew to a point where we had more reptilian diversity than the leading national museums! A few years ago we assisted small conservation organizations in Kakamega Forest and Lake Baringo to start similar conservation education programs concerning rearing, capture, identification and roles of snakes in the environment.

Towards the end of my program, I was involved in many international research studies dealing with reptile behavior, bio-geography and inventory that were conducted in Kenya. These studies gave me the opportunity to travel Kenya in search for these elusive animals.

My adventures and experiences during this time of my life will always be the definitive definition of me, not the quintessential nerd defined by the media. And as a testament to this, my students will always agree that my stories of my explorative years were more interesting than any computer topic.