The Misadventures of Lacy Clark

I have returned from Kenya more traveled, tan, and patient and than when I left. We began our journey early Monday, January 19th, and the thought that the next time I would be waking up at 3am, bags in hand, would be when I fly back to the states brought me great comfort for two reasons--one, because it meant that soon, after a year of traveling I would be coming home for good and two, that I wouldn't have to get up that early again until that fateful day. We were headed to Kenya for two weeks, the first week spent on Safari and the second along the coast of the Indian Ocean in a city called Mombasa. We decided to travel to Nairobi by bus to save money, though I'm not sure it was the option that would save lives--the first few hours on the bus were strangely akin to a wooden roller coaster that had a knack for getting off track.

We were granted a break from the ride at the Uganda-Kenya border, or so we thought, until, while waiting for our visas to be processed, we realized we had left behind the golden ticket that gets you into any African nation--our Yellow Fever vaccination records. With our new visas being stamped and the clocks ticking (it seems Africans are laid back about everything but transport), we had one option: avoid the Yellow Fever-checker man at all costs. I would like to term this stunt "sneaking into the country" for theatrical purposes, though I do wish to clarify to all with legal authority that we entered Kenya that day in a "glass half full" sort of way and that's all you can ask for, really. With the yellow-Fever checker man continuously peering around the corner for new prospects, we had to quickly devise a plan. The answer lied in the restrooms across from the visa office that were blocked by trucks parked on the path that led to freedom--a path that could not be seen by the enemy.

Abby and Ruth were the first to go, followed by Lizzie, and I was left behind for a solo mission because my visa was not yet finished. I knew this was the work of God because He likes to do these sort of things to me, for testing-of-faith reasons, but also I think to make life more of an adventure. And when He does these sort of things, He always delivers with a bang, for as my name was called to come and collect my passport, the propane petroleum truck meant to block my exit (or rather, entry) began pulling forward, blocking the clear path to the restrooms that I had been memorizing for the past ten minutes. In a moment of sheer determination accompanied by an ounce of recklessness inspired only by Jason Bourne, I briskly walked (which I'm sure was looking rather suspicious by this point)around the front of the moving truck, arriving at the restrooms.

It was there that I was stopped, not by the Yellow-Fever checker man but by the ever-present toilet cashier, who charges you to use the toilets even though he never gets around to cleaning them, this being the same ever-present toilet cashier who was now in plain sight of the Yellow-Fever checker man, leaning back in his chair scanning the area for his next victim (or more appropriately, missing one). At this point my wallet was in the bottom of my bag containing no small amount of Kenyan change, and after what seemed like the longest two seconds of my life in a sweating panic searching the contents of my backpack, the gracious toilet cashier allowed me to go on, and I hurried in praising God for those latrines they pass on as toilets and the salvation that they brought at that moment.

After a few moments of regrouping in the safety of my new-found sanctuary, I slowly peeked around the door to see if the coast was clear, as any clever sleuth or criminal would do. I then briskly made my way down the original path leading to freedom, so elated with my adventure that I forgot that I would now need to figure out how I was planning to get back into Uganda without my Yellow Fever vaccination record.

This was only the beginning--not only of our journey but of our tests of patience as well. With our safari vehicle breaking down in the middle of the Masai desert along with a 12 hour turned 24 hour train ride from Nairobi to Mombasa due to a slight issue of derailing, our patience was tested at every level in every degree (and it became quite obvious that we each had different degrees of this virtue). I knew I had to be patient, because God was only dishing out the challenges I had asked for. And in that knowledge, though anxiety was slowly brewing inside, I enjoyed every minute of these misadventures, because I knew that in the end it would make for a great story, and what is life without a few of those? God has given me plenty, that is for sure.