Red Rumps and Red Skies

I woke late this morning.

I pulled back the curtains on the large window that overlooked Nairobi National Park. The skies were cloudy and grey and the air smelt damp and fresh. There is a smell that is distinctly African. One that strikes me each time I step from the plane in Nairobi, when I walk the rural lands in Nyanzaa or when, like now I gaze out over the wild plains. It is the smell of wet red earth, dampened by overnight showers, the scent of the open plains, acacia trees and grassland. The unmistakeable fragrance of freshly cooked bacon. Or that last bit could have just been the hotel restaurant a couple of floors below.

As I look out, a red-rumped swallow soared effortlessly past the window and settled on the telegraph wires that ran parallel with the wire fences that separate the terrace bar from the wild animals of the national park. These remarkable birds, no more than a few inches long spend their summers in Southern Europe, before beginning their 4,000 mile journey to winter in the warmer climates of sub-Saharan Africa. It is an amazing feat for such a fragile creature.

I was a little behind them, having arrived just the night before.I had enjoyed a cold Tusker on the terrace when I arrived, after a frustrating journey through Manchester and Paris, before a very empty flight and the courteous service I always enjoy from Kenya Airways.

We had landed at the airport a little early, at 9:30 the previous evening. 

I made my way through the familiar chaos of kiosks and shops to the immigration and visa counters.To my delight there was no queue ahead of me and, having printed off the visa forms at home, I was well prepared to go straight to the counter.

“Jambo”, the official greeted me with a cheerfulness I had rarely encountered there previously, “how are you?” she said.

I replied that I was fine, and handed over my documents, including my brand new passport, renewed less than a month ago.

“Ah”, she said, “you have been here before. I can see that you are on our system”

You could have knocked me down with the tail feather of a red rumped swallow.

I don’t know quite what surprised me most – that I was known to the Kenyan government, or that there was, in fact, a system!

She asked about Kisumu, about the Trust and the queue behind grew steadily longer as my less prepared fellow passengers completed their visa forms.

“Welcome” she said finally, and handed back my passport, with a visa now adorning one of it’s pages.

A short taxi ride took me to the hotel and a good nights sleep, accompanied by the familiar sounds of the African night (taxi drivers beeping their horns loudly and the incessant calling of yellow weaver birds in the surrounding trees).

I drew the curtains back fully and looked out at the park. 

Nairobi National Park is a relatively small park, squeezed on three sides by the urban sprawl of the city, with just a small corridor at the southern end for wildlife to make their way down to the great pains of the Maasai. Locals complain about wildlife intruding into the city, about attacks by wild cats on domestic animals and cattle, but it’s no surprise, when the fences erected to separate the two are stolen and sold for their metal.

Around 11:00 I made my way back along the crowded roads to the airport, for the early afternoon flight to Kisumu.

The short flight west often affords far reaching views across the volcanic plains of the rift valley, as far as Kilimanjaro to the south and the rising snow capped peaks of Mount Kenya to the north. But today the small plane rose through the heat haze to a sky filled with majestic cumulonimbus. Rising from a flat base the clouds are pushed thousands of feet into the air by the warm thermals. Thick with the promise of refreshing rains they bump the plane this way and that as the pilot moves left and then right, surfing across the white slopes of the clouds. They are at once beautiful and threatening, the power to create thunder storms and the promise of water for a parched land.

 

And then the turquoise waters of Lake Victoria appear. We begin our descent to the small lakeside airport in Kisumu.

Moses, Paul James and Anton are there to meet me.

It is good to greet old friends and colleagues. We have great mutual respect and affection and I couldn’t imagine them ever not being in my life.

Anton tries his best to open the boot of the car “It is so secure”, says Moses, “that it even refuses its own key”. Eventually he succeeds, bundles in my case and we make our way through the familiar streets of the city to Sunset Hotel.

“Mr Tim Broughton” announces the receptionist as I walk in.

Nothing like making an entrance! It’s good to be back. The room is shabby and familiar, the lift only works if you hold the button down, the hotel walls are covered in mosquitoes looking for a good meal.

But the people are warm and friendly, the grounds are beautiful and the view is to die for.

Moses, Anton and I spend an hour or three catching up and planning the week, before I am left alone for the evening, to prepare for church tomorrow.

 

As I looked out over the lake the sun slowly slipped from the sky, setting fire to the mountains and the lake as it kissed them goodnight.

It feels good to be here again, to meet up with old friends and colleagues, fellow pilgrims on a journey, writing stories and living our purposes. It's good to be reminded, as well, of the wonders of the world in which we live.

Whether it is the amazing inter continental journeys of the red rumped swallow, the powerful and majestic cumulonimbus or the fiery sunsets over Lake Victoria, I know that I am lucky to live in such a beautiful world. And even luckier to know it’s creator.

I am looking forward to the next few days in Kisumu.