The last few days have included the following:

A large man explaining why his wife could not conceive a child as he held his hands in front of his belly in what I can only assume was the hand-shape equivalent of his wife’s uterus.

An actual village chief whispering audibly the word “water” as the principal of a primary school wandered around in his response to our guide’s question: “What is your greatest challenge?”

The same principal’s wanderings starting to sound very much like “Water water water water water. Water water.”

(Elizabeth runs a foundation that helps bring water to those who need it in Kenya.)

A group of small children pick up jugs of water after being told to do so by the chief. They then place the jugs on their heads and walk up a hill. They are nice enough, though, to wait for us to take their picture.

This conversation between Elizabeth and a pair of chiefs:
"And you know that the burden of carrying the water falls on the women."
"Why is it that the men don’t help?"
"Well, it’s traditional that that’s women’s work."

The following series of conversations:
“What are the dogs’ names?” Elizabeth asks Francis.
“I don’t know,” he says.
. . . .
“Yeh, Elizabeth really likes dogs,” I tell Solomon, Frances’s assistant.
. . . .
[Sound of dog whimper outside]
“I need to check on the dogs: I love the dogs,” Frances tells us on his way out the door.

In an attempt to convince Elizabeth that the village needed extensive and expensive projects to bring water to the center of the market, we are taken to at least five springs that seemed to be flowing freely and cleanly.

Our pilot comes on the intercom to tell us that we should make certain that our seatbelts are tightly fastened. This after he brings the plane to the end of the runway, and turns it 180 degrees in order to get every inch of the runway. In the rest of his announcement he explains that the runway has been shortened and that it is now only the minimum length to allow us to take off. We will need to do a “performance take off.” He brakes, revs the jets, the nose lifts, and he then releases the brakes and the plane as though releasing a slingshot.

Solomon explains to us that he could help us with any of our future travel plans. He does so after explaining how a large group had lost all that it paid to visit the Masai Mara game preserve. They went anyway, paying him again. He went along as their guide. He had never been before that. We discuss the possibility of visiting Mombasa. “No, I’ve never been. But if you go, I’ll be there!” We have not made any plans to travel with Solomon.

We arrive from Nairobi and are met by Frances and Solomon at the Kisumu airport. We get in a van, a Matatu or a van that serves many urban areas in Kenya as a form of public transportation. They are notorious for being the causes of accidents. There was a very large, strangely coifed woman asleep in the Matatu—“a friend,” Frances explained. We drive to the village, which is about an hour out of Kisumu, as Kenyan music videos establish the surreal tone for the rest of the trip to western Kenya. We get out, and Frances asks us to pay for the ride. His friend disappears.

We load back into the same Matatu to leave the next day. The fat girl is asleep inside. As we wait for Frances, about six people pile in, and we pick up one more at our first stop. As we drive into Kisimu, several passengers exit as though we are in fact a Matatu providing public transport. We again pay for the ride.

Frances tells us that we are going for a tour of his orphanage. He suggests we go back to our cabin to get some water. There is none, and we are out from the drive up. The tour continues from 9 in the morning to a little after 5. It’s hot. Frances is carrying a large bottle of water. We have none.

We wonder if we are going to die.

We don't. We celebrate my 41st birthday in Nairobi.