It Happened on the Way to War Read Online Free PDF Page A

Mara at a camp called Rekero, far from the diesel-choked streets of Nairobi. We delighted in seeing the wild animals of the Great Rift Valley, the tectonic fault line that reaches from Mozambique to Lebanon and hides many clues to evolution’s puzzle. We watched lions stalking and dik-diks grazing with zebras and Cape buffalo. We drove alongside galloping giraffes and stampeding wildebeests, absorbing their thunderous energy and marveling at the beauty of the land. It was exhilarating. Somehow, though, I had anticipated these sensations. What I didn’t foresee was my interest in the local people.
    On our last day our Masai guide Jackson Ole Looseyia invited us to his village, where he welcomed us into his house, a smoky mud-and-wattle hut. I was amazed by his austere lifestyle. Looseyia told me about his culture and patiently answered my many questions. Afterward, while my parents took a nap, Looseyia led me with his long, rhythmic strides up a steep path to the escarpment behind the main camp. I was panting by the time we reached a slab of granite jutting into the air like a tilted tombstone. Looseyia stepped to its edge and surveyed the landscape below.
    I caught my breath and asked Looseyia about his ambitions. He looked at me curiously and replied that it was a very American question. After a pause, he told me that he wished to guide for the rest of his life because it was his main talent, and because he respected the tradition of passing knowledge on to others.
    â€œAnd you, what do you want to do?” he asked, facing me.
    In the third grade we had an assignment to identify whom we wanted to be like when we grew up. Every night my parents and I watched the evening news with Tom Brokaw. Brokaw reminded me of a friendly uncle, and I liked that he had an impact on how people viewed the world. I wrote an essay on being a news anchor and appended a glossy photograph of Brokaw in the newsroom. However, explaining who Tom Brokaw was to Looseyia seemed out of place, so I told him the truth.
    â€œI don’t know. I want to do something significant.”
    â€œEverything we do matters. Don’t take what you have for granted. You can do something significant. But you know who makes that possible?”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œIt’s your parents.”
    â€œOh, yeah, of course,” I replied.
    â€œNo, you’re not getting me. You have more opportunities than I can even dream. You have these because of them. You should treat them with more respect.”
    I was at a loss for words. What he was saying resonated deeply. I had taken a lot for granted.
    The following morning Looseyia accompanied us to the dirt airstrip. I gave him one of my baseball hats and we exchanged addresses. It had only been four days, yet it was difficult to say good-bye. My father handed Looseyia his cane in an impromptu gesture of appreciation.
    â€œFor me?” Looseyia asked in disbelief.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œOf course,” Dad said. “We’re grateful for all you’ve done for us.”
    â€œIn our culture a man’s walking stick is the most significant gift. It’s given from a chief before he passes to the next chief, or to his son.”
    â€œWell, I don’t plan on croaking anytime soon, but I do hope you’ll be a chief.” My father laughed, though I could tell he was deeply moved by the meaning his gift conveyed. He asked Looseyia to join us for a final family photograph.
    As our plane lifted off, Looseyia stood on the savanna holding the cane above his head. My father, peering out from his window, saluted him.
    FIVE YEARS LATER I was in my first of four Swahili classes at UNC. The language had a smooth sound and a rhythmic flow, and I enjoyed studying it even though the class itself was one of the most polarized I had ever been in. A dozen male athletes and a few guys looking to complete their foreign-language requirement with as little work as