Police Officer's Mess

Last night, Ian and I walk to Nyanda Center for an ice cream, our first frozen treat since arriving in Kenya. He picks a berry flavor and I choose the butterscotch with caramel toffee. Hand dipped. Scrumptious, but not nearly big enough! As we walk home, Ian suggests we detour to the Police Officer's Mess, a bar-like place close to our home. We enter the dim interior to find two guys sitting at the “bar” (it's more like a store window) and two other guys sitting at a nearby white, plastic table watching TV and drinking beer. Overhead, two fans stir the air. Wow, moving air and TV. The beers are 60 shillings, the cheapest price in town.

We watch a sports program featuring Manchester United and an Italian team. Then they cover motorbike trials and female runners. After the sports show, “Flying through Time” comes on. This edition is about Boeing building the 747 in the late 60's, with scenes of the U.S. I feel a little homesick, even if the U.S. footage is from the 60s. I enjoy this show very much, enjoy seeing flashes of the Stealth Fighter and Harrier jets, both of which I've seen up close, at least within 20 yards, at air shows in Warner Robins, Georgia.

Both my parents worked as civilians on Robins Air Force Base, so we visited frequently and attended air shows annually. My Mom worked as scheduler for maintenance performed on F-15 Eagles. I don't think I'm revealing any national security secrets by writing those planes are pulled back to Robins every six years from wherever they may be in the world. They're then disassembled and rebuilt, which is where my Mom's scheduling comes in. She worked with the mechanics to document the rebuilding process and to have new parts manufactured if needed. What a sight, walking into a vast hangar and seeing those machines, stagnant and wingless, lining the walls.

Watching the Harrier take off vertically was one of the most thrilling moments in my life, as the vibration of the jet pulsated into the ground, running up and up through bones and veins until my heart was ricocheting off lung and rib. The power of that machine was immense. I can see why men (and women) become addicted to fantastic flying machines. Being close to such earthshaking intensity is intoxicating.

After the Boeing show, locals news came on KTN. I complete my usual one beer and Ian finishes two. We head home in the dark, walking down a divided street with neat homes tucked safe behind their high walls, noticing how close and plentiful the stars are. “KTN shows movies at 8pm every Saturday night,” I tell Ian. “We should come back next week to watch a movie.” He agrees. I miss movies and planes flying overhead. The other night, I hear a plane in the distance, the only plane I've heard since being in Kisumu. At first it sounds like thunder. I'm losing my plane sensibilities.

Growing up in Warner Robins, planes and jets were constantly streaking the sky. Sonic booms were common place, occurring almost daily, and I learned to not flinch as the shock wave landed on our house, rattling windows and doors. Didn't flinch. Until January 2005, when I am sitting across from Mama in her living room in Warner Robins, chatting. Suddenly, the French doors in her dining room seem to come into the house, forced inward by a horrendous racket. The pressure subsides but leaves me shattered. “What was that, Mama?” “That's a sonic boom,” she says and looks at me funny, as though she's thinking, 'don't you remember?'

There's quite a bit lately I'm remembering I remember.