A Swahili Christmas

By Elaine L. Schulte

“HOW WOULD YOU like to go on a photo safari in East Africa for Christmas?”

“A safari in East Africa?” I repeated to my husband.

The idea conjured up images of great adventure — and a pang of reluctance. “It sounds wonderful, but it just wouldn’t seem like Christmas, and the boys wouldn’t want to leave their friends… .”

He handed me a travel brochure, and the colorful pictures of zebras, giraffes, elephants, and wildebeest in Kenya and Tanzania made the prospect more enticing. But we’d have to give up the usual Christmas expenses.

Part of my brain said, Go, it’s the chance of a lifetime! But another part argued, It just wouldn’t be Christmas without a tree and gifts.

He showed the brochure to our two young sons. They looked at the wildlife animals and whooped, “Let’s go!”

“No Christmas tree or presents,” I warned them.

“Who cares?” they answered.

We made reservations for the two-week trip.

As the departure day approached, I was torn between the excitement of going and the sadness at giving up our traditions. The meteorologist added to my regrets with predictions of a white Christmas. In Africa, it would be summer.

On December 23, we flew to London, and changed planes to fly on to Kenya. We landed, exhausted, at the Nairobi Airport, and were driven by van through the outskirts of town, where natives lived in thatch-roofed huts.

We stayed in a modern Nairobi hotel, whose wall decorations included spears, shields, and bright African wall hangings. The hotel’s shops featured carved mahogany busts of Africans, as well as carvings of their animals. We were most definitely in Africa.

We registered, and then headed for the hotel’s bank to exchange travelers’ checks. At the bank’s door, a burly African guard held a baseball bat over his shoulder, apparently to fend off possible bank robbers. It seemed that bank security people were allowed to carry baseball bats, but not guns. An African Christmas would be different indeed.

The next morning, Christmas Eve, we met our native driver, Adam, outside the hotel. He greeted me with a bright, “Jambo, Mama.”

His friendly smile convinced me that he was not calling me a “jumbo mama.” Once our luggage was settled, we started out in a zebra-striped minibus.

Riding through the countryside, we bounced on rutted roads for hours before stopping at a colonial hotel, where dusty oleanders bloomed and tea was served on the veranda. Here, Adam picked up our box lunches for later.

Nearby, under the trees, vendors had set up shops for selling drums, handwoven baskets, colorful fabrics, cowhide shields, and Masai calabashes for carrying cow’s milk and blood.

“Smell in the calabash,” they urged, taking off the lid and holding it out to us.

I quickly backed away from the putrid smell.

They laughed.

We’ll buy souvenirs elsewhere, I thought, but the boys thought differently.

“Please, can’t we buy one?” they begged. “Please! We’ll use our own money.”

“Wait till we take them to school!” the boys exclaimed looking over the inexpen-sive calabashes. “Some kids don’t even believe we’re going to Africa. They’ll believe these!”

We drove on, past scattered villages with more thatched-roof huts. Here and there, Masai men herded their scrawny cattle across the dusty land. The men carried tall spears that doubled as walking sticks, looking as if they had posed for the pictures of Masai in National Geographic.

We stopped for cattle and Masai herdsmen crossing the road. My husband opened a side window in the van and pointed the camera toward them.

Adam shouted, “No, no, cannot do!” He stepped on the gas, swerved around the angry Masai, and raced away. “Last week a Masai put his spear through a tourist taking his picture! Masai think pictures take away the spirit.”

After some moments, we righted ourselves in our seats and remembered that we were visitors in their country. Still, the encounter added to my misgivings.

It was late afternoon when we approached Lake Manyara National Park. My husband read from the brochure: “The lodge overlooks a mahogany forest, marshes, and scrubland, where we find lions lying in the trees and herds of elephants.”

But that’s tomorrow, I thought. Tonight we’ll spend Christmas Eve in this strange place.

It was a long day’s drive, broken only when we stopped to eat fried chicken from our box lunches and to drink bottled orange juice and water.

We arrived at the rustic lodge in time to wash and change before dinner. Later, in the dining room, a foil Christmas tree stood in the far corner. A few people said, “Merry Christmas,” but the holiday spirit was missing.

After dinner, the lodge manager announced that there would be a program out on the patio. We headed outside for the chairs near a blazing bonfire. Behind the fire stood women wearing bright caftans and colorful turbans high on their heads; the men lined up behind them in white shirts and dark pants.

After we settled down, they hummed a note, and then began to sing in Swahili: “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!” As they sang, their faith radiated like the sparks from the bonfire.

A lump crept to my throat.

Before long, the night filled with “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”

My soul was shaken.

In broken English, the director asked us to sing the last song with them.

My voice quavered as I sang, my English words blending with their Swahili. “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright, round yon virgin mother and child …”

Hot tears streamed down my cheeks. It was Christmas, a real Christmas, not one bound by cultures or traditions.

In Africa, the wondrous story returned to touch me.

Elaine L. Schulte is the author of thirty-six novels and hundreds of articles and short stories for both adults and children. She has lived in Europe and traveled extensively, but her “Swahili Christmas” turned out to be the best vacation of her life. She and her husband, Frank, have two sons and two grandchildren.