It was time to make the journey North to the rural home of the family where the funeral was to be held.

The rented five-person vehicle strained under the weight of 7 persons.

The shock absorbers were not functional causing the car to lurch uncomfortably on the rough highway. We braced ourselves as we approached each rough patch on the road. Looking at the surrounding countryside, I was surprised at how many people were moving about. Areas that used to be remote and unpopulated were now teeming with people.

As we were negotiating a bend in the road, we were forced to an abrupt halt where a large herd of camels blocked the road. The weathered looking camel-herders impatiently signalled us off the road to detour around the 100 or so camels.

Camels, I was told, have become mainstream animals in the country. While I was living there, camels were not seen and were certainly not found wandering down the main highways but now, owing to their hardiness, were owned by more and more people.

After a flat tire and a goodly number of rough miles, we were at last in the metropolis of Karatina.

This dusty little town is a bustling hub of agricultural trade. This little town had gone through the worst excesses of the deposed government and remained orderly through it all.

We bounced through the streets of Karatina and began the last leg of the journey to the ancestral home.

The deep red soil on the road contrasted sharply against the bright green foliage that draped the landscape.

We wound through the narrow dirt road until we were stopped by a group of elderly ladies.

They asked who I was and when they were given my name, they ululated and swarmed the car demanding that I get out. They remembered the little pale-skinned boy that lived among them many years before. They commented on my overwhelming largeness and laughed merrily when I haltingly told them in the tribal dialect that we were well fed in Canada.

They released me to proceed on our way.

To be continued?..

My dad and I walked out of the airport arm in arm. We had not seen each other in 16 years. He was much smaller and leaner than I remember.

I, having lived the life of kings on the fruited plains of North America, had grown into a voluminous whale. I stood about a foot taller than the average person there. My chest cavity alone was adequately large to fit several natives.

Many say that we North Americans have residual animal steroids in our food and thus our large frames.

Perhaps this is so but much of the heavy work I had done in the Canadian oilfields very likely played a part in the creation of a barrel-chested giant who had the power to lift two Africans with one arm.

My old man seemed nervous and excited to have his first son back. He sat in the front seat of the car pointing out landmarks in the city as we sped past.

He warned me to keep the windows of the car up because of a popular blackmailing technique used by street urchins.
As a person sat at an intersection, the thieves would lean into the car holding a mass of feces. The occupant of the car would be advised to surrender a wallet and watch. Failure to do so would result in the feces being mashed into the occupant's face.

The fear of feces compelled me to keep my window up in spite of the broiling heat in the car.

The city had degraded significantly since I was last there. The streets were torn up and the traffic system ran on what seemed to be a variant of the chaos theory.

Overloaded passenger vehicles darted in and out of the traffic stream with wild and aggressive abandon.

In hushed tones, my dad and the driver of the car began discussing the safest route through the city. Apparently, there were parts of the city that were best to avoid when there were females or foreigners in the car.

We passed the site of the American Embassy that was bombed by Islamic groups in 1998. I stared at the gaping space where the Embassy building used to be. When I lived in the city, I used to walk by the US embassy frequently and I couldn't help thinking that I might have been among the 230 locals who were killed in the blast. Many of those killed were hit by falling glass and cut to ribbons. Al-Qaida, in it's crazed hatred of American, killed 230 Africans in an attempt to kill Americans. 6 Americans died.

"Damn those Islamic terrorists? who the *&%^ do they think they are"? I thought.

The conversation in the car turned to the political changes that had swept through the country. A year ago, the brutal strong-man Daniel Moi was defeated in the first truly democratic election held in the country.

The new president, Mwai Kibaki was swept into power on the promises of removing corruption and rebuilding the devastated economy.

Both these promises seemed like an over-reach.

Corruption was pervasive. It reached to the very top of all three branches of government. The judicial branch had devolved into a powerful and nasty extortion system and the executive branch ravaged the nation's business and civic organizations.

In response to the government's erratic and predatory behaviour, many industrial concerns closed shop and fled. The country's industrial areas, once teeming with activity, were now empty, crime-ridden zones.

We left the city centre and entered the suburb areas. Here, the country's tiny middle class claimed a toe hold. We drove into the gated community guarded by layers of security. As we passed through the security check stops, guards studied us closely to verify our identity and confirm our authorization to be there. Here, it was possible to leave the car windows open....an island of safety in a sea of madness.

The political conversation continued. The new president of the country had an insurmountable task. People were sceptical of his claims but lo and behold, he actually began doing what he said he would do. The judicial system was torn open and all the judges and lawyers who were corrupted were thrown out. (Curious aside: This wholesale cleaning of the system resulted in a large number of women occupying the upper echelons of the justice world because a lot of the corrupted legal agents happened to be male).
I was told that this action by the Government gave hope to the citizens of the country that freedom was indeed attainable. In spite of the continued uncertainties of security and the economy, people were truly optimistic. Suddenly, the new tone I heard on the radio and the merrier spirit that people seemed to have made sense to me. It was not that their lives were better but rather that they had hope that their lives would be better in the foreseeable future.

That night, I slept more soundly than I had done in a long time.

As morning broke, I sprung from bed to the sound of exotic bird calls. I had not heard morning birds for a long time (the Canadian tundra is famously short on giant hornbills and weaver birds). The cacophony of noises was delightful and amusing.

A new day.

I was getting ready to go to work when word suddenly came to me that the matriarch of our family was dead.

I began planning for the trip to Africa to attend her funeral. I needed a flight plan, a passport and several injections. After a day of frenzied activity, I had all three issues taken care of.

My arms were tender having been injected over a 24 hour period with serums that should have been absorbed over three weeks.

Before I knew it, I was flying over the Atlantic Ocean headed for London.

Within 8 hours, I was descending through clouds over the Thames river. My first view of England.

I, having been a loyal subject of the crown all my life, was profoundly moved by the experience of seeing the green countryside of southern England. I did not really anticipate the feeling but I was in a surreal haze as I picked out the various landmarks that dot London. It was as though I had lived there all my life even though I was seeing it for the first time.

Shortly after landing on the green island, I was in the air again heading towards Africa.

Looking out the window of the 747, the continent was shrouded in thick clouds as far as the eye could see.

After 9 hours of flying, I was on the ground in Equatorial Africa. The humid air was hot and sticky; sharply contrasting the cold dry air of the Canadian Prairies. Looking around, I was struck by how peculiar the vegetation looked. After living among pine and poplar trees for so long, the Savannah thorn trees and Jacaranda trees looked very alien and chaotic.

After the cool orderliness of a modern North American airport, the African Airport was a reminder that the usual comforts of a first world nation were far away.

Wishing to use the bathrooms, I recoiled from the warmed stench and the moist unsanitary claustrophobic facilities. All the stern warnings about infectious diseases flooded my mind but I suppressed the urge to flee. It really wasn’t that bad but it certainly felt like it after having lived in the highly sterilized world of Canada for so long.

I stood in line for an entry visa. Sweat poured down my face as I waited for my turn to pay US$50.00 for permission to enter the country. Over the din, a radio played on the public address system. An energetic female, host of the talk show playing on the radio, spoke rapidly in a bewildering mix of English and Swahili.

I noticed two new things on the radio. The existence of a talk show and irreverent subject matter.

When I was in the country 16 years before, the media was heavily controlled by a dictatorial government. There were no talk shows and there were certainly no jokes cracked at the expense of Government ministers. I felt strangely relaxed to hear the zany conversation on the airwaves. People milling around seemed happier than I remember. There seemed to be less wariness in their speech and mannerisms. Freedom is indeed a succulent dish.

The heat was thick as I waited for my luggage to swing by on the conveyors. I wished I could dry myself off before meeting relatives. I didn’t want to drip sweat all over as I greeted them.

“Oh well”, I thought. “They’ll understand”.