“It’s a marvelous night for a moondance…”

I lie in the darkness listening to the melody of Van Morrison gently drifting through the thin wall of my tent.  Being a light sleeper, my fellow traveler’s iPhone alarm wakes me five minutes before my own. 

The tip of my nose feels cold, and I pull my blankets around my shoulders, snuggling in for a few more minutes before dressing for the day. 

With flashlight and camera gear in hand, I step outside, scanning the area for any reflective animal eyes that might be looking in my direction.  After yesterday afternoon’s startle from an ostrich that wandered too close to my tent, I’m not sure what I might find in the darkness. 

The coast is clear. 

I walk to the main tent, make a cup of tea and join the six other women who have settled around the campfire.  This is the first all-female adventure I’ve been on, and I enjoy how we bond while gathered around the fire before and after excursions away from our campsite each day.

“We’re leaving in 10 minutes, and it’s about a 45-minute drive.” 

I look at my watch.  It’s barely after 5 a.m.

The morning sky is clear with stars shimmering against the dark palette.  To the east, a hint of color is budding on the horizon.  The hues of deep purple along the skyline are mesmerizing, and I poke my head through the window frame to see more.  The morning air feels cool and refreshing against my skin.  I take a deep breath, inhaling the aroma that is distinct to Africa.  I’m not sure if it’s the richness of the soil or purity of the air, but the pre-dawn scent is wonderful.  I get lost in my thoughts until the silhouette of a lone Acacia tree catches my eye.  It’s perched on a small hill, and its branches canopy the earth below.  It is the only tree we see on our drive through this vast and remote part of Kenya’s Rift Valley.

We peacefully transition from our mobile tented camp to a community of the Turkana tribe.  Yesterday we spent time in this village gifting bags of porridge, flour, rice, cooking oil and sugar.  The food was funded by donations to a non-profit campaign organized by our lead photographer, Piper Mackay.  While delivering the same supplies to the El Molo, Rendille and Samburu tribes, I saw the heartfelt gratitude from people who have suffered from the seasonal drought that occurs in Kenya this time of year.  A change is on the horizon, though. 

A welcome rain shower brought muddy water to a nearby dry river bed yesterday afternoon.  The precipitation was among the first of the season, and it was a relief.  The seven women in our group joined some of the Turkana women as they walked down a hillside to collect water, filling their large, empty storage containers.  Once filled to the brim, they carried them back uphill.  It’s heavy, back-breaking work and a task for which the women in the households are responsible.  I walked alongside them, listening to their voices as they sang and climbed the hillside with their water.

Our return to the village in the morning is gentle. The sun is barely up. People are barely awake. We talk in near whispers when we arrive, which is atypical for a photography tour. On most expeditions I’ve joined, we are greeted with echoing drumbeats and impassioned singing.  But here and now, it’s quiet. The villagers know that we are coming back, and some of the women we met yesterday greet us with a soft song.  It’s a lovely gesture, and their welcoming expressions make it personal.  I observe the women and admire their authentic kindness.  One woman in particular catches my attention.  She is wearing a colorful piece of material that’s tied around her shoulders.  The yellow fabric with circular patterns in blue, green and red is striking with her large beaded neck collar and other jewelry.  We make eye contact and, surprisingly, she walks to me and motions for me to come with her.  I do. 

She walks in front of me, leading me somewhere.  I’m not sure where we are going, but I’m curious to find out. 

We weave between houses that are the size and shape of small igloos but built from tree branches and scraps of wood.  Goats and sheep roam the area, as do young children who tend to them. 

We arrive at a house, and the woman points to the doorway and motions for me to go in.

“Is this your home?” I ask, not sure whether she speaks English.

She doesn’t reply.  She motions again. 

I’m about to go in, but then it dawns on me that no one knows where I am. 

I look for another member of my group.  I don’t see anyone around — not even another local.

I glance at the house, but there are no windows that I can peek into.  I’m curious about what’s inside but not sure whether it’s safe to enter.  Sometimes I get a little uneasy when I don’t know what I’m walking into, and I’m having one of those moments in this distant corner of the village.

“Is this your home?” I ask again.

She doesn’t answer.  Instead, she walks past me and bends under the short door frame and goes in.  I decide to do the same, trusting her and assuming that she lives here.  Once inside, I’m pleasantly surprised to see a small fire burning to my right.  The warmth makes the space seem cozy and safe.  To my left is a tiny stove with two pots.  I imagine her preparing food in the small workspace — perhaps some of it will be from the supplies we left yesterday.  A sheer partition divides the cooking area from the other half of the home.  Animal pelts are on the ground, and the woman motions for me to sit next to her on them.  I’d like to, but the smoke is getting thicker, and my eyes start to burn.  I also start to cough.

“I’m sorry.  I need to go outside for some fresh air,” I say, pointing to the door.  She seems a little confused but follows me outside.  I catch my breath, wipe a few tears and try to give her a reassuring look.  I know that it was an honor for her to invite me to her home, and I feel bad that I needed to leave.

She starts to walk and motions for me to follow her again.  She leads me to the top of the embankment that we walked down yesterday when we retrieved water.

I gasp when I see what she is showing me: a stunning view of the sunrise bathing the landscape.

We stand together in silence admiring the magnificent sight as the light continues to lift and the colors shift in the sky.  It’s a special moment as I share the beauty of the panorama with her. I feel blessed by her kindness.

Eventually, I point to my camera and then to her while I ask to take her photograph.

I’m not sure whether she understands me, but I walk a few feet away from her and bring my camera to my eye. 

She seems comfortable with it, so I take some images. 

I walk back to her and turn my camera around for her to see herself on the LCD.  She gets a big smile on her face, so I decide to take a few more.  Again, I show her the images, and she seems pleased.  She takes my hand, delicately intertwining her thin fingers with mine.  She starts leading me through her village again, and we stop near a group of people gathered near a small fire.  I’m reminded of my group starting our day by our fire.

“Karum.  Hello,” I say, smiling at everyone.

“Hello,” says a boy’s voice above the other local greetings.

I look at him.

“You speak English?”

“Yes, I do,” he proudly confirms.

“Do you want to practice?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I’m eager to communicate with the woman who has been so gracious to me.

“Will you please ask the woman I am with what her name is?” I ask the boy.

Without translating, her tells me her name. 

“It is Jacqueline.”

I feel foolish having asked my question.  This is a secluded village.  Of course he knows her name…

“Thank you.  Please tell her that my name is Lisa and that it has been very nice meeting her.” 

He translates and she smiles, repeating my name.  He continues by introducing members of the group.

Emaathe is a man wearing a hat embellished with pink ostrich feathers.  A woman who stands to his right is introduced as Nachuch.  I recognize her from the group that walked to the river yesterday, and I shake her hand.

“Karum,” I say.

“Karum,” she warmly replies.

Next, I meet her sister Anna and Anna’s daughter, Veronica.  The other members of the group are named Daniel, Laura, Pilipili, Peter and Lokwai.

I’m about to ask the boy his name when he questions me.

“Where is home?”

“I live in America.  In a place called Michigan,” I say. 

“How many days in (the) sky is that in (an) airplane?” 

“It’s about two days,” I reply. 

There is a long pause as he looks to the sky.  I follow his gaze and wonder what is going through his mind.

“That scares me.  To be in (the) sky and no feet on (the) ground.”

“Yes.  I understand this.  It is a long time to be in the sky, but it is so beautiful up there, looking down on the earth.”

He looks back to the sky. 

“Maybe someday I do this — fly.”

We chat for a few more minutes while some goats wander into our gathering.  I’ve visited enough villages to be comfortable with goats, sheep, cattle, and after this journey, camels.  In this part of Kenya, they are a common sight, although I don’t see any near me this morning.  I turn my attention back to the group, ignoring the goats.  As the adults talk among themselves, I think about how being here feels like stepping back in time.  There is no electricity.  No televisions.  No computers or iPhones.  Their pastoralist lifestyle is taxing, and the average life expectancy is only 55.  And with the recent construction of the nearby Lake Turkana Wind Power Project, a new lifestyle is inching closer via the 365 wind turbines.  Maintaining culture and tribal traditions could become increasingly difficult.  I hope that the bonds of family and community among the Turkana will be strong enough to withstand influences of the outside world.  I can’t imagine them living any other way.

I see some members of my group walking in the direction of the vehicles, and I tell the boy that I need to go.  I ask him to translate how nice it was to meet everyone.  He does, and they all give me wide, friendly smiles.  It was a pleasure, and I look forward to seeing some of these people again tonight at a goat-roasting party that we will host for them.  Four goats were purchased for the celebration that will include a meal and singing and dancing around a roaring bonfire.  For now though, I must go.

I start to walk away, and surprisingly, Jacqueline, Nachuch and Veronica accompany me.  When we get to the vehicles, we see that other Turkana women have gathered with the other female travelers in my group.  The Turkana women start to sing a song, saying goodbye to us.

I listen to their voices singing in harmony.  I don’t understand what they’re saying, but it doesn’t matter.  Their expressions and tone say it all.  Their words are coming from their hearts with sincerity and gratitude just as they did to welcome us.

When they are done singing, I give Jacqueline a hug goodbye.  I reach into my bag and offer her my bottle of water.  She struggles to break the seal on the cap, so I help her.  I hand it back and watch as she twists off the cap and then carefully fills it with water.  She takes a sip.  Then she puts on the cap partially and passes the bottle to the woman on her right.  That woman pours water in the cap and sips it.  She replaces the cap and passes the bottle to the woman on her right.  She fills the cap and sips it before replacing the cap and passing on the bottle.

It seems to go in slow motion, yet it happens quickly.

I have never seen such an extraordinary example of sisterhood and sharing. I’m so awestruck that I almost gasp.  Tears swell in my eyes…  One spills onto my cheek. 

I can’t believe what I’ve witnessed.

We wave goodbye and drive back to our camp.  The morning breeze flows through the open windows as my thoughts swirl.  I think about Jacqueline showing me her home and the view of the sunrise.  Those two gestures were generous, and I will always remember her sharing them with me.  The third gesture, however, resonates with me the most. 

Jacqueline has no idea of the weight of that tiny blue cap being filled with water and shared.