The Journey
Stories from an exotic childhood
I grew up in a farmhouse full of books outside Nairobi, Kenya in a place that used to be called Karen, with the Ngong Hills in the distance behind a forested ridge. I loved my books of myths and legends, and especially the African tales where people could shape-shift into animals, and take on their character. Later in life I enjoyed African magical realism, especially West African writers where witchcraft and magic give powers to animal forms occupied by human spirits. Not far from our farm was the Rift Valley with the soda lakes and volcanoes. I’ve never forgotten the flamingos on Lake Naivasha rising in pink clouds that stirred my imagination as a boy. I was lucky enough to climb the volcano, Mt. Longonot with a group, and fall down in a cave to find animal bones at the bottom. The scars on my forearm have faded with the years, but the memory of looking down into that quiet crater and across the Rift Valley stayed with me. I’ve always wanted to be able to change forms, and this is my story of how I did.
Once there was a small boy with a love for travel and adventure. He lived near a volcano in a deep and wide valley with many lakes, covered with flocks of flamingos. In the mornings the flamingos calling to each other would deafen him as they greeted the rising sun across the lake. Their voices seemed to draw him, up from the warmth of his bed, out into the still dimply lit, cold morning. He would stand on the veranda of the house and listen, making small noises to himself, calling back to the birds, almost feeling feathers rise on his back, imagining he had wings.
It was as if the voices of the flamingos were calling to him across the mist rising from the lake. Their voices were strange and raucous, hoarse and mysterious, rising and swelling like a tide. He felt the power in them, the comfort of feathers and silky wings, the colours of pink and red like the inside of your eyelids when you looked at the sun through them.
And he knew he had to go with them.
He carefully opened the screen door on the front of the house, tiptoeing past the bedroom where his parents and young sister slept, and went to get his shoes and coat. There was no time to eat, he had to go now,with the sun rising, while the flamingos were calling.
He crept outside, gently closing the screen door behind him, stepping softly from the veranda onto the wet dewy grass. And then he ran, ran like the wind towards the lake, the voices of the birds in his ears. The sun was turning the lake pale pink with golden ripples, and the sand on the lake shore was a dark purple ribbon. The air was still and calm, with a feel of rain, but it seemed that the wind was rushing through and about him, almost as if he was flying. He ran to the lake, and splashed into the shallow, salty water, feeling it cold on his feet. He could see the birds now on their column nests, as he splashed towards them. From his throat he heard himself calling back to them in a strange guttural way, the sound coming from deep inside, a feeling rather than a sound.
Suddenly he was among them. He stopped, gasping for breath, and the nearest flamingo eyed him balefully, silently. The bird slowly go to its feet, uncoiled his long thin neck, and shook his wing feathers. He lowered his head, tilting it sideways to get a better view of the boy, and hissed:
“We’ve been waiting for you …”
The boy shivered, suddenly cold and afraid. He looked at the bird and saw a person. Looked at the feathers and saw comfort. Looked at the colours and saw the sunrise. He was confused, sad, afraid and happy. He could say nothing, but a strange low clucking sound came from his throat, and the birds stirred and responded as they heard it.
The bird in front of him bent his long legs and settled onto the column nest. He surveyed the boy. The child spoke in their language:
“I want to go with you. Take me with you. Please take me with you …”
His voice trailed off into silence. The birds raised their voices, began to warm up their wings, and call to each other in a rising tide, getting ready for the dawn flight. Every morning for years the boy had seen the flamingos take off at dawn. The whole lake would move as one pink and red and black cloud, the shallow water splashing about the flamingos long thin legs as they ran for the sky. Then the cloud would lift and undulate like a blanket above the lake, and the voices of the birds would change to exultation, as the lake changed colour from pink to blue again. and the flamingos would fly away, somewhere, who knew where, and the boy would feel a sadness and loss for their leaving
“Take me with you … ?” pleaded the boy.
The flamingo hissed:
“Climb onto my back, and make yourself small. Hold onto my feathers and mind you don’t fall. We’ll go to the mountain, to the lake down inside. You’ll never meet fear, with me by your side.”
The boy climbed onto the flamingos back and the flock called back and forth to each other. The feathers were soft, yet strong, and he held to them with all his strength. The bird rose to his feet with the flock, stepped down off the nest, and began to run to the sky. He spread his red and black wings and the the great wing beats were like a massive heart. He opened his bill and let out a whistling and grunting, and the boy called to the flamingo and his flock as the birds rose over the lake and wheeled away towards the dawn sky.
Far below, the sun glinted on the lake, and the wild animals moved across the plain like ants. Across the valley, the boy could see the blue grey cliff of the escarpment, where the valley met the highlands. Ahead was the volcano, rising from the valley floor, mysterious and foreboding. The noise of the flamingos wings rushed and pulsed around him as they floated towards the mountain. The birds were silent now, panting in the early morning air from the heat of their flying. They flew away and up, towards the volcano and the lake down inside.
Suddenly he could look over the crater rim and see the lake. It was emerald green with gold edges, and some of the birds had already landed on it, pink against green. They banked steeply and came down in a long glide, getting slower and slower, and finally running to the waters edge, splashing in the green lake water. The flamingos folded their wings and began to feed, sieving the water for food.
The boy climbed down from the back of the flamingo and put his legs in the water. He stretched and felt his feathers rustle. He stretched out his neck and uttered a whistling call of contentment. Then he began to feed, dipping his beak in the water, sieving from side to side with his head.
“Take me with you, take me with you … I want to feel freedom and colour and the feathers on my wings.”
