Shadrak

The way to the mountain camp is along a treacherous mud path that hugs the inner wall of a river gorge. I creep the Toyota RAV4 along the path, dreading what might happen if I meet an oncoming vehicle. If this happens, one of us will have to back up along the rugged path to find a spot wide enough for both vehicles to pass. Next to me, Jeanne is cringing. This “road” is the most dodgy we’ve attempted yet in Kenya, and we’re not even sure it leads to our destination. Highway road signs simply do not exist here. There’d been a single hand-made signpost proclaiming “cottages” a few kilometers back, but since then nothing to suggest that the rough track we are following won’t simply peter out in the jungle.

We pass small and neat family villages perched on precarious wooden stilts on the gorge slopes, and we occasionally meet walkers on the road who have to snuggle up against the roadbank when we pass. Many of them are carrying enormous wicker baskets on their backs, secured and supported by a strap that wraps around their forehead. The baskets are full of hand-harvested tea leaves from the mountainside plantations that surround us. Many smile and return Jeanne’s friendly wave. Some do not.

I don’t wave to the locals. My hands are locked to the steering wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. This section of the road is steep, and when I crest the top of the incline, the nose of the Toyota is pointed skyward and I cannot see the road over the hood. I can only assume that it continues, and doesn’t instead plunge five hundred feet into the gorge. The car’s occupants all give a simultaneous gasp as we trundle up and over. We are in luck. There is more road ahead.

We reach the cottages a few minutes later, to the great relief of everyone. Like everything else in Kenya, it is hidden behind a high gate. I’ve learned that if you pull up to one of these gates, a security guard will rush to open it for you, no questions asked. I wonder if someone who isn’t obviously a tourist would be granted such easy access. Our rented late-model Toyota SUV is a rarity on the rural roads, plus we are “wazungus” (Swahili for white people) and there’s no way we’d ever be mistaken for a local.

The security guard wears a green military-style uniform. He’s young, maybe in his mid-twenties. I roll down the window and he welcomes us and gestures to a parking spot. We are the only car here, and probably the only guests, given that it is mid-week.  Soon a squad of other men pour out of one of the many lodge structures to greet us and whisk away our luggage and show us our tents. As Jeanne and the girls unpack, I notice that the guard who welcomed us has remained standing alone next to the gate. I wonder: does he just stand there all day, waiting for someone to drive up?

I climb down the hillside toward him, and he watches me approach. When I smile and call out a greeting he returns my smile. I shake his hand and introduce myself. He tells me his name is Shadrak, a name I recognize both from the Old Testament and a famous Beastie Boys song. He has high cheekbones and a very clear complexion. He seems happy for the company.

When I ask, he tells me he is not local, that he is from the Lake Victoria region, a nine-hour bus ride from Nairobi in the northwest part of Kenya. When I ask how he ended up here at a remote lodge in the Aberdare Mountains, he tells me that a friend got him a job with a security contractor, and that they post him in different places all over Kenya for half-month assignments.

“I am fortunate to have a job,” he tells me. “God has given me a gift so that I can save some money.”

I ask if he enjoys his work and he shrugs. “Yes, of course. It can be very lonely, sometimes.” After some discussion about his job and duties he confides to me that his true talent is “opening up and working with electrical devices. God has given me a built-in gift for understanding electricity.” He taps the side of his head. “I can usually open up a device and look inside and understand how it works, even if I have never seen the device before.”

He tells me that when he was a little boy, he had a neighbor with a small radio that wasn’t working. He asked the neighbor if he could open it. When he did, he intuitively understood the purpose of all the wires and components he found inside. Once again, he taps his temple with his finger. “God gave me a special talent. I was able to quickly repair the device. Since then, people bring me their broken devices.” He points to a solar-powered bulb hanging from a nearby lamppost. “When I arrived here, these lights did not work. I fixed them.”

His story reminds me of young Werner Pfennig from the World War II novel All the Light We Cannot See, who is recruited from a farm village when the Nazis realize the boy has a special talent for repairing radios and electronics. When I ask why he doesn’t have a job working on electronics, his face clouds a little. At first, I can’t understand his explanation, but eventually it becomes clear that he needs a license to become an electrician. “But the license requires, um,” he pauses, and rubs his index finger and thumb in the universal gesture for money. “I have to attend an advanced school before I can get such a license.”

Several children from the nearby farmstead have seen us talking and have congregated around us. They are good-natured and beautiful and I imagine that growing up in such a remote place surrounded by such natural bounty is a gift. They are all dusty from playing, and Shadrak lifts one of the little girls onto a bicycle and gives her a ride around the parking lot. The little girl obviously adores Shadrak, and when he finishes and returns to my side I tell him that he will make a great father. When he gives me a quirky smile I ask, “Wait, do you have children?”

He smiles broadly. “My wife was blessed to give birth to my first child yesterday.”

My response is abrupt. “You’re telling me that your wife just gave birth to your first baby and you’re here working? Why aren’t you with her?”

He shrugs ruefully. “It takes money to go to her. But it is okay. I go home next week to attend my father’s funeral. I can see my new daughter then.”

“Your father has died?”

“Yes, on Sunday. The funeral is on the 30th.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

A long silence passes while we watch the local kids play in the lodge parking lot. One of them is wearing a tattered Lake Tahoe t-shirt. “What have you named your new daughter?”

“She does not yet have a name.”

“Has your wife sent you a picture?”

He shakes his head. “She does not have the right kind of phone. It is analog. Text only.”

“So you don’t know what your daughter looks like yet?”

“No.”

“I’ll bet she’s beautiful,” I say.

“Yes,” he agrees.

One of the children, a beanpole girl of about nine or ten, runs up to Shadrak and tugs on his pant-leg. She wants him to push her on the swing in the small lodge playground. He gathers her up and takes her to the swing. She squeaks with joy as he pushes her high, and the others clamor for Shadrak to push them, too. When I leave ten minutes later, Shadrak is still surrounded by a swarm of excited but well-behaved children, and he seems to be enjoying their company as much as they are enjoying his.

Later in the evening, from the vantage point of my camp tent which is situated high on the mountainside, I see Shadrak below alone at his guardpost—a folding chair on the lawn next to the gate—intently reading a book which is open on his lap. As far as I know, ours is the only vehicle to have come up the rutted approach road in the past 24 hours. Shadrak is always vigilant, but he has plenty of time for reading.

I see Shadrak one last time as we are leaving. Our camp hosts gather together for a departing ceremony where hands are shaken and selfies taken. Shadrak is missing until Jeanne insists that he join us, and one of the hosts goes to fetch him. After we finish our goodbyes and are in the car at the gate, I roll down the window. Shadrak extends his hand and I shake it. He gestures to Jeanne and asks me what her name is, and I tell him.  He smiles and assures us that he will name his new daughter Jeanne. Jeanne laughingly scolds him. He opens the gate and waves as we drive away.